


With Sorrow We Accept Our Fortunes

by Philosophizes



Series: Bad Decisions [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Adults, Children, Fabricated Documents, Humans, Images, Multi, Transcript Included
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-27 14:54:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 30
Words: 275,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philosophizes/pseuds/Philosophizes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story that takes a look at how one event- the sudden, mysterious change of Nations into humans for fifteen years, during which they took full advantage of their new state and began marrying and having children until the day their Nationhood abruptly returned- changed the course of the entire world.</p>
<p>Slightly meta- told and presented in the context of a book.</p>
<p>(The <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/31816">'With Sorrow We Accept Our Fortunes' Backstory Fics</a> series introduces the majority of the original characters; but isn't necessary to read before this)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cover

* * *

** Transcript **

_A teal blue book cover with the title "With Sorrow We Accept Our Fortunes: The Extraordinary Tale of Love, Doom, and Loyalty in the Lives of Our Nations" on it. The book is writtern by "Keld Schumacher, LPsy". A portion of a classical painting containing a column is the cover's sole graphic. A line of text across the top of the book proclaims it to be the "100th Anniversary Edition"; and a sidebar next to the spine identifies the book as coming from "The World Literary Association's Century Classics". The World Literary Association's logo is nearby._


	2. Title Page

* * *

**Transcript**   


_The title page_

_With Sorrow We Accept Our Fortunes: An Extraordinary Tale of Love, Doom, and Loyalty in the Lives of Our Nations_

_Keld Schumacher, LPsy_

_[World Literary Association Logo]_

_The World Literary Association  
BERN_


	3. Copyright Page

* * *

**Transcript**   


_[The UNESCO logo]  
[The WLA (World Literary Association) logo]_

Published by The World Literary Association  
Buchstrasse 21  
102611 Bern  
BERN

<http://www.wla.org/publications>

_With Sorrow We Accept Our Fortunes_ was first published in 2119 by Hillcaster-Duvanti in Brussels.  
First published by The World Literary Association in 2142 with Foreword, List of Nations, Family Trees, and Chronology.  
100 th Anniversary Edition published in 2235 with Introduction, Foreword, The World of 2046, List of Nations, Family Tress, and Chronology.

_With Sorrow We Accept Our Fortunes_ Copyright © 2119 by Keld Schumacher  
List of Nations, Family Trees, and Chronology Copyright © 2119 by Cassiel Navin  
The World of 2046 Copyright © 2235 by The World Literary Association  
Cover Art _The Course of the Empire: Desolation_ Copyright © 1836 by Thomas Cole

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by international copyright law, enforceable by the United Nations.

The World Literary Association Century Classics and the Century Classics logo are registered trademarks of The World Literary Association, a subdivision of UNESCO

Printed in and published from Bern

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Schumacher, Keld.  
With Sorrow We Accept Our Fortunes: An Extraordinary Tale of Love, Doom, and Loyalty in the Lives of Our Nations / Schumacher, Keld.  
p. cm.  
ISBN 978-4-9135285-7-2 (Print)  
ISBN 223-7-5939387-4-9 (Digital)  
1\. Authorized Biography   2. European History   3. Nations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story and all it contents, text, graphics, and otherwise, are not in any way actually associated with UNESCO or the United Nations.


	4. Table of Contents

 

 

* * *

**Transcript**

  
 

_TABLE OF CONTENTS_

_\-------------------------------------------------------_

_The World of 2047_

_Foreword_

_List of Nations_

_Family Trees_

_\--------------------------------------------_

_With Sorrow We Accept Our Fortunes  
Part I: 2047  
Part II: 2052_

_\---------------------------------------------_

_In Memoriam_


	5. The World of 2047

 

_THE WORLD OF 2047_

                It is hard for the modern reader to grasp what life must have been like in the mid-2000s. So much progress has been made in the last two hundred years that it seems a person, transported forward in time from then to today, would recognize Earth only by the presence of fellow humans and breathable atmosphere. How vast, confusing, and mysterious must a civilization that is ever-further expanding into the frontiers of space; where magic and myth are an accepted part of daily life and ‘person’ is no longer synonymous with ‘human’; where Nations preside openly; must seem.

                How would they answer the age-old question: is this future a thing to be praised as a testament to the will and ingenuity of humankind, or is the past something to be longed for as a simpler, more manageable time?

                2047 brought the peak of political and social tensions that had been building in the world since the turn of the millennium. The ongoing upset of longstanding assumptions about life brought about and aided by the technological boom and ease of information sharing formed the backdrop for a divisive global back-and-forth between liberal and conservative ideals and a newfound sense of the fragility of the world’s political state as civil wars, rebellions, riots, protests, and factions gained a wider audience and vast amounts of media coverage. This turmoil, and the possibilities promised by any one person’s impressively large sphere of influence, also brought forth a blossoming of political movements; the most significant of which were ethnic and national.

                In their nascent forms, they were largely ignored. This proved to be a mistake.

                The ethnic/nationalists ran the gamut of establishmentarian, such as the Russian Reform Party; through the revolutionaries, notably Adán Salcedo Esparza’s Anti-Espín League and Elke Bastian’s Germans for National Pride; and into terrorists like The Groups to Restore a Unified Korea and The Citizens for a Free Kyonig. In a mirror of the liberal-conservative tensions, the separatist and unification factions existed uneasily alongside each other, the most successful movements, mostly in Europe, spawning their own Nations- some enduring, most fleeting.

                In the shadows, more problems, old and new, known and unanticipated, emerged. Suspicions in some circles, fostered in the wake of the massive government transparency scandals of the earlier decades, grew to the point of active information-gathering and conspiracy-mongering. Long memories and general disgust over the erratic economics of the same period led to the deterioration of the European Union in the face of another critical situation. Most significantly, the repercussions of two events long-past- the murder of the Erlkönig and the near-stagnation of the interstellar conquests of the Pictan Empire- were poised to crash down on a completely-oblivious humanity.

                Through this global morass wound the lives of our Nations- intimately connected, influencing and influenced. It was into this tangled aspect of the times that Keld Schumacher came; and which he revealed in his writing.


	6. Foreword

This book was an accident.

I was never aiming to write a book- I was never aiming to write anything but coherent notes about the most complicated case I had ever been hired for in my ten years of psychiatric therapy. Looking back on it, I now realize it was nearly as hard as dealing with the case itself; but that never occurred to me over the weeks and months I spent copying, re-copying, cross-referencing, adding to, paring down, and collating the sheer amount of information I managed to amass.

I didn’t realize I even had a story until much later.

* * *

I was in New York about a week after the events at the Vatican; desperately trying to keep to myself what information I knew I had in the face of the entire world sent reeling.

I had an office in the Office of Nations’ Affairs by then. I was a little late coming back from lunch- perhaps ten minutes- and when I passed Verena at the front desk, I wasn’t expecting anything to be going on.

“Were you expecting _Signor_ Vargas?”

I had no idea where that could have come from.

“No?”

“He’s in your office.”

So I spent a harried minute or so attempting to look more professional than I was prepared to before entering my office, hoping that _maybe_ he’d been sent to explain, or ask for help on behalf of the other Nations to explain to their governments.

Lovino Vargas was there- looking through my notes. He didn’t seem to care that I’d walked in and caught him doing something a little less than legal. He just turned the next page and kept reading.

“You’re really not supposed to be doing that.”

“You think I give a fuck?”

I knew I wasn’t going to get the notes back from him until he was ready to give them up, but when I got to my desk I saw that he was reading the abridged version- the bare bones outline of everything I’d heard from my clients since my first meeting six years before.

I sat down at my desk and failed at fighting through my unease about the possibility that client confidentiality was being betrayed.

“You’ve got a lot of shit here that will never see a history book,” Lovino told me after about fifteen minutes. He’d finished the notes by then and had been glaring- or maybe just staring hard- at the stack of paper for about three.

Now he was giving me the same look.

I wasn’t sure what he wanted to hear, or if I should press the question of what I supposed to do with my knowledge.

“Are you sure it won’t?” I asked. “With everything that’s happened?”

Lovino held the glare for a few seconds, spat something angry out under his breath, turned on his heel, and left my office.

To this day I have no idea what he’d come to see me about.

* * *

That was not the start of this book.

Not for me, anyway.

* * *

My start came a few years later, when I received a call from Arenu Barbar at Hillcaster-Duvanti Publishing.

Despite a good deal of hard work, I had not been completely able to divorce myself from my sister’s reputation and actions; though now I know better than to try.

My phone rang and I answered it. I wasn’t expecting any calls, but I thought it might have been Rémy, and he’d been delayed at the meeting he was supposed to have before coming for a visit.

Before I could manage to say anything, a woman started talking.

"Keld Schumacher?”

“Yes?”

“This is Arenu Barbar from Hillcaster-Duvanti and I’d like to ask you some questions about your sister.”

If there is one thing I hate discussing with people, it’s my sister.

The conversation blew up after that point.

Rémy arrived just in time to hear me scream: “My family is none of your business!” and hang up.

One question led to another and soon enough, still furious from the call and not thinking entirely straight, I’d pulled out the abridged notes and all the supplementary material and was pacing around the room ranting while Rémy sat quietly in my armchair and looked through everything.

When he was done, he told me, voice carefully neutral: “You put a lot of effort into this. It’s very… _thorough._ ”

“Of course I did!” I snapped back at him, and unthinkingly added: “This is my life’s work!”

He helped me put everything away, and I was still out of sorts when he left.

* * *

The next day, Francis Bonnefoy showed up at my front door and asked for the abridged notes. I wouldn’t let him take them, but he managed to wheedle his way into getting to read some of it. He sighed and smiled and tutted disapprovingly over portions for a few minutes before putting the pages down.

“This is the story Lovino told us about.”

I told him it wasn’t a story, it was his life and the lives of his friends and my case notes, if he wanted a _story_ he should convince the others to call a press conference and _explain_ why things were happening, but he let my words breeze right past him.

“Rémy told me you got a call from a publishing house… who was it?”

I refused to tell him. He let me get about sentence in before waving at me to stop talking.

“No no _no,_ this will not do,” Francis told me. “You must call this person back and tell her you have the information she wants.”

I said I wouldn’t and he said I would and it went back and forth for I don’t know how long until Francis slammed his hand down on my kitchen table and pointed dramatically at me.

“You will call Ms. Barbar back because there is no one who can do what you can!”

I had to pause for a moment to try and figure out what he meant, but he moved straight on to his point.

“You know about what happened with us, with _all_ of us, why the world has been turned upside down. No one else can tell it but you and Ms. Barbar wants information- if you do not tell her the truth, she will go somewhere else to get information on your sister, and the story will be incomplete! They will know only of what your sister did, and never suspect the connections- and the larger picture _must_ be seen, _Mijnheer_ Schumacher.”

He stayed in my kitchen until I looked up Arenu Barbar’s number on the publisher’s website and called her back, despite my misgivings about confidentiality and the nondisclosure paperwork I’d signed as part of the job. The only thing that kept me from immediately hanging up when the ringing began was Francis lurking behind me.

“Ms. Barbar, this is Keld Schumacher,” I told her when the line picked up. “I’m sorry for reacting the way I did when you asked about my sister.”

“I understand,” she replied. “It was rather crass of me, and I understand if you don’t want to discuss-”

“I’ve been authorized to give you a better deal.”

A sharp silence descended.

“ _‘Authorized’_?” she asked. “What do you mean?”

Francis, listening in carefully, spoke before I could reply.

“Tell her you can write it.”

I shook my head frantically at him, but it didn’t help.

“Tell her you worked for the European Union and now you work for the United Nations and you are employed to be the Nations’ psychologist and that you can tell the world why the Vatican happened, how the Second Unification came to be, where the ships came from- _all of it._ ”

I covered the phone with a hand and hissed: **_“France!”_ ** in indignation, but he fixed me with a look I’d seen before- the look of a Nation giving an order.

“We know the people have to be told,” he said. “And we haven’t decided how, but we’ve agreed we _must._ You have most of the basic work done already, and we can arrange for you to learn the rest.”

I still could have told him no. I still could have hung up on Ms. Babar.

I could have done a lot of things.

But in that moment I remembered the countless sessions I’d had, the things I’d been told, the people I’d met, what I’d learned. I remembered Lovino, standing on the other side of my desk, telling me that what I’d written- what I knew- would never be in history books, because these sorts of things never were.

But the world had changed, hadn’t it? Shouldn’t this, as well?

I realized that if I didn’t do as Francis had told me to, the stories of the Nations whose lives were so intimately connected to the whatever dry list of facts that would appear in the history books would never get a chance to be known. The truth would stay untold, or else be laboriously dug up and haphazardly pieced together and argued over until no one would ever be able to tell what was conjecture and what wasn’t.

So I repeated what Francis had told me to say to Arenu Barbar, and during the flurry of questions that followed, I realized that I was doing the right thing.

* * *

Arenu Barbar was the Head Editor for Hillcaster-Duvanti Publishers in Brussels. We spent a solid week on the phone discussing everything we could possibly think up to ask each other and hashing out some initial guidelines for how the book would go.

Meanwhile, without input from either of us, France presented his impromptu solution to the other Nations and their children, who worked the idea over.

I told Arenu I’d never written a book before and she dismissed it, saying there was a reason editors had a job. She’d handle the manuscript personally.

I was more than happy to let her handle the technical aspects of writing I had no experience in. I gave her only one demand for the book itself, word passed on from Canada- whenever a draft was finished and edited, before anything else could be done with it, it had to be approved by the Nations.

Arenu had no end of objections to this- it would compromise my vision, it would bias the story, international politics would have everyone trying to make themselves look better and it would never go anywhere.

I told her that I was writing about their lives, and they had the final say about what I got to tell the world about them.

We didn’t speak for a month after that, but I started on the first draft despite this, and Arenu called me back when I was halfway done to agree to my terms.

* * *

In the end, there were only two official drafts of this book.

The first was written by expanding and cutting away at my abridged notes for eighteen months, adding in what personal recollections I had and the ones I gathered from interviews of the Nations and their children, before sending it off for editing. There are roughly one hundred copies of this draft in existence- my copy, the copy Arenu edited, and one for each Nation who had more than a background appearance in the story.

The deliberation over the first draft took up a full two months of meetings that I was later told ranged from a full day’s session in the UN itself to five minutes in a back alley of some Alpine village hiding from the consequences of a joke gone wrong.

Eventually, I got two copies of the manuscripts back, one with Arenu’s edits and a collective one from the Nations, covered in Zell Beilschmidt’s handwritten annotations.

The second draft took nearly three times as long as the first. There are three copies of that draft- mine, the one with Arenu’s edits, and one group copy from the Nations, completely unmarked except for one word on the title page.

_‘Wait’_

* * *

We waited seventy-nine years and eight months to publish the book you now hold in your hands.

I often asked why we had to wait when I had been all but ordered to write the book in the first place- especially when the point of the work was to inform the public, and some of the information was already being given, in fits and spurts. The answers I got ranged from _“It’s still too soon, Herr Schumacher, I’m sorry,”_ to _“Because we damn well told you to!”_ .

I think I know the true reasons.

They are twofold-

One, force of habit. It’s a hard thing, to stay deliberately in the background for centuries, and then decide to tell the universe things you never intended for a wider audience. To open yourself up for censure, and critique, and ridicule; to air your shame and your fear. It’s easier not to.

Two, protective instinct. The majority of their children are dead or dying now, just as I am, and this is their story and their lives just as much as it is their parents. Much of the information not directly related to the political situations I gathered through interviews with them- at least half of this book is theirs; and I’m certain that their parents wanted to give them as much privacy as possible.

If you take nothing else from this book, please, know that the one thing that can never be doubted about Nations is that their children are very dear to them, and they love them greatly, whether they are still in this world, have departed for the next, or relocated to another completely.

* * *

Some of the names in this book you may have heard before- many you have not, and never will again. All of the things you read within, no matter how far-fetched they seem, actually occurred. I have done my best to portray the events as they happened, using the information that was reported to me. No names or characteristics of any persons have been changed to preserve anonymity. All facts not relating in the majority to personal experiences are verifiable through the public record.

I hope you the history I have to tell in these pages means as much to you as it does to the people who lived it.

Keld Schumacher  
Amsterdam  
May 2119


	7. List of Nations

Agion Oros- _Akakios Karpusi_

Albania, Republic of- _Liridona Bardha_

America, United States of- _Alfred Franklin Jones_

Andorra, Principality of- _Joaquima Vidal_

Armenia, Republic of- _Ardzvi Hovhannisyan_

Australia, Commonwealth of- _Duncan Morris_

Austria, Republic of- _Roderich Edelstein_

Azerbaijan, Republic of- _G_ _álay Vazirov_

Basque- _Martzel Exteberri_

Belarus, Republic of- _Natalya Arlovskaya_

Belgium, Kingdom of- _Adele Charlotte Zeghers_

Bosnia- _Jadranka Tahirović_

Bulgaria, Republic of- _Gavril Boyadjiev_

Canada- _Matthew Williams_

Catalunya- _Amans Pujol_

China, People’s Republic of- _Wang Yao_

China, Republic of- _Ông Hua_

Corsica- _Marcella Lazarini_

Crete- _Aristomache Katsaros_

Crimea- _Ayşe Niyaziy_

Croatia, Republic of- _Marija Zupan_

Cuba, Republic of- _Marco Echemendia_

Cyprus, Republic of- _Ulises Agathocleous_

Czech Republic- _Barbora Fiala_

Denmark, Kingdom of- _Mathias_ _Niels_ _Køhler_

Egypt, Arab Republic of- _Muhammad Hassan_

England- _Arthur Kirkland_

Estonia, Republic of- _Eduard von Bock_

Finland, Republic of- _Timo Väinämöinen_

French Republic- _Francis Bonnefoy_

Friuli- _Lurinz Costa_

Galicia- _Uxía Castrillión_

Georgia- _Imeda Ujmajuridze_

German Lands, United Republic of the- _Dietrich Ehren_

Germany, Federal Republic of- _Ludwig Beilschmidt_

Greek Macedonia- _Zora Karpusi_

Hellenic Republic- _Heracles Karpusi_

Herzegovina- _Dragoslava Majstorović_

Hong Kong- _Leong Jin_

Hungary- _Erzsébet Héderváry_

Iceland- _Geir Bondevik_

India, Republic of- _Surendra Mishra_

Ireland, Republic of- _Gilroy Byrne_

Israel, State of- _Rahel Navin_

Italian Republic (North)- _Feliciano Costa Vargas_

Italian Republic (South)- _Lovino Agresta Vargas_

Japan- _Honda Kiku_

Korea, Democratic Peoples’ Republic of- _Im Myung-Sun_

Korea, Republic of- _Im Yong-Soo_

Kyonig, Republic of- _Nadja Ivanova Gisbertovich_

Ladonia, Republican Monarchy of- _Donner von Maskinsjälen_

Lappland/Sami- _Ráfi Hætta_

Latvia, Republic of- _Raivis Galante_

Lichtenstein, Principality of- _Liesl Hohenheim _Zürcher__

Lithuania, Republic of- _Toris Laurinaitis_

Luxembourg, Grand Duchy of- _Wernher Rothslöwe_

Macau- _Qui Li_

Macedonia, Republic of- _Armand Pandev_

Malta, Republic of- _Benedetta Alesci_

Monaco, Principality of- _Claudia Mercier_

Montenegro- _Senka Knežević_

Netherlands- _Falko Zeghers_

New Zion- _Yevgeniy Ivanovich Ruchelov_

Nomos Kykladon- _Sotiria Karpusi_

Northern Ireland- _Reardon Byrne-Kirkland_

Norway, Kingdom of- _Eiliv_ _Bondevik_

Noxc̈iyn- _Yakhiyta Ivanova Kazbek_

Poland, Republic of- _Feliks Łukasiewicz_

Portuguese Republic- _Sancha Machado_

Prussia, Kingdom of- _Gilbert Beilschmidt_

Québec- _Joséphine Guillaumes_

Romania- _Cezar Dalca_

Russian Federation/Russian Republic- _Ivan Braginski_

San Marino, Republic of- _Melchiorre Agnusdei_

Sardinia- _Santiana Luxi_

Scotland- _Kenneth Forsyth_

Sealand, Principality of- _Peter Kirkland_

Seborga- _Raffaele Fiore_

Serbia, Republic of- _Pavle Radic_

Seychelles, Republic of- _Estelle Poivre_

Sicily- _Vespasiana Marconi_

Slovak Republic- _Dušan Banik_

Slovenia- _Cvetko Cirar_

Spain, Kingdom of- _Antonio Fernandez Carriedo_

Südtirol/Tyrol- _Viktoria Beilschmidt_

Sweden, Kingdom of- _Berwald Oxenstierna_

Swiss Confederation- _Sebastian _Zürcher__

Thrace- _Direnç Konstantinou_

Trient- _Margarethe Beilschmidt_

Turkey, Republic of- _Sadık Adnan_

Ukraine- _Yekateryna Braginskaya_

United Mexican States- _Milagro Antúnez_

Vallée d’Aoste- _Carlo Costa Bonnefoy_

Vatican City/Holy See- _Cristoforo Pietri_

Venezia Guilia- _Zuliana Costa_

Wales- _Tristan Cadogan_

Yakutistan- _Aleksandra Ivanova Medvedeva_


	8. Family Trees Pt 1

Ludwig Beilschmidt  
     +Feliciano Costa Vargas  
                  Maria Gisela “Zell” Costa Beilschmidt (adopted)  
                       +Rémy Fabrice Beilschmidt (dropped Bonnefoy)  
                                  Louis Beilschmidt  
                   Heinrich “Heinz” Marco Costa (Sonnehilde’s twin; dropped Beilschmidt)  
                        +Adriana Costa, née Pace  
                                   Luisa Costa  
                                   Mosé Costa (Gilberto’s twin)  
                                   Gilberto “Bertino” Costa (Mosé’s twin)  
                  Sonnehilde Lavinia “Nia” Costa Beilschmidt

Rahel Navin (never married)  
        +Gilbert Beilschmidt  
                    Cassiel “Cass” Navin (dropped Beilschmidt-)  
        +Cristoforo Pietri  
                    Giovanna "Gianna" Miccichelo, née Pietri  
                         +Santiano Miccichelo  
                                   Emanuele Miccichelo

                     

Lovino Agresta Vargas  
          +Antonio Fernandez Carreido  
                      Vincezno “Cenzo” Fidele Agresta Fernandez  
                             +Lorenza Agresta, née D’Onofrio  
                                         Amadea Agresta  
                       Dr. Catarina “Cato” Constantia Agresta Fernandez  
                              +Wang Zheng  
                                          Wang Tai (from his first marriage)  
                                          Fabrizia Shi Wang  
                       Giuditta “Ditta” Ferrero Karpusi, née Agresta Fernandez  
                              +Nikephoros “Nike” Karpusi  
                                          Apollonia “Loni” Karpusi  
                                          Ercole Karpusi  
                        Vasco Durante Agresta Fernandez  
                        Nicodemo “Nico” Terenzio Agresta Fernandez  
                                +Diana Agresta, née Bottegante


	9. Family Trees Pt 2

Yekateryna Braginskaya  
     +Sadık Adnan (never married)  
                  Halya “Hal” Sadekivna Adnan  
                       +Her Royal Highness Else Synnøve of Norway  
Ivan Braginski  
        +Abigail “Abby” Braginskaya, née Obermier (divorced)  
                    Anatoli “Ana” Ivanovich Braginski  
                         +Sofiya Abelev Braginskaya  
                                       Yakov “Yasha” Anatoliev Braginski  
Natalya Arlovskaya  
        +Toris Laurinaitis (divorced)  
                      Rozete “Roz” Laurinaitis (dropped Garrison after divorce)  
                            +David Garrison  
                                      Stasis Garrison  
                      Pavel “Pasha” Laurinaitis  
                      Stasis Laurinaitis (natural abortion; stillborn)

Eiliv Brynjarsson  
          +Jannike Abrahamsen (never married; children through arrangement)  
                      Øystein Brynjarsson  
Geir Brynjarsson  
          +Aðalbjörg Robertsson (never married or met)  
                      Ásdís Geirsdottir (adopted)

Berwald Oxenstierna  
            +Timo Väinämöinen  
                        Eluf Oxenstierna  
                        Armas Väinämöinen (dropped Oxenstierna)

Erzsébet Héderváry  
           +Roderich Edelstein  
                       János “Jansci” Béla Héderváry-Edelstein

Heracles Karpusi  
            +Angeliki Simonides (never married; children through arrangement)  
                         Nikephoros “Nike” Karpusi

Wang Yao  
             (all children adopted)  
                         Wang Shi  
                          Wang Zheng  
                                  +Wang Nuo, née Cheung (deceased)  
                                              Wang Tai


	10. Family Trees Pt 3

Feliks Łukasiewicz  
     +Stefcia Niemcyzk (never married; deceased)  
                  Grażyna Król (dropped Łukasiewicz)  
                       +Mikołaj Król (divorced)  
                                       Mieczyslaw “Mieszko” Król  
                                            +Teodozja “Dosia” Łukasiewicz (never married; dropped Pakulski)  
                                                          Roksana Lukasiewicz

Marco Echemendia  
        +Remedios Villaverde Lopez (divorced)  
                    Zacarías Echemendia Villaverde

Alfred Franklin Jones  
        + Belén Peláez Palomo (divorced)  
                      Lucas “Luke” Peláez Jones  
                      Carmen “Carrie” Peláez Jones

Honda Kiku  
          +Hideaki Satsuki  
                      Honda Tomoko  
                          +Crown Prince Katsu of Japan (divorced)

Arthur Kirkland  
            +Naomi Hackett (engaged, died before wedding)  
                      Irene Walker (adopted by Ezra and Isabel Walker)  
                           +Joseph Walker (deceased)  
                                     Eglantine “Lana” Walker


	11. Halftitle




	12. 2047




	13. 2047: August

Giuditta Ferrero Agresta Karpusi blinked in the darkness of the bedroom and realized her husband wasn’t asleep beside her.

She got out of bed and pulled on her robe and slipped down the hallway to other bedroom, easing the door open.

Little Apollonia, barely a month old, was still sleeping. Her father wasn’t with her.

Giuditta closed the door silently and noticed a light on downstairs. And somebody was talking on the phone.

She started down the stairs.

_‘I am sorry, but the customer you are trying to reach has been disconnected-’_

The disembodied voice of a pleasant-sounding woman floated through the air to her ears, followed by a much less-pleased male voice.

“ _Shit_.”

“I think _Padre_ is rubbing off on you. Or maybe it’s just Naples.”

Nikephoros Karpusi lowered the phone and looked over at his wife.

“Did Apollonia-”

Ditta hugged herself, a little cold despite the warm August night outside.

“She’s still sleeping. Did you ever go to bed?”

“No,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “I tried his office but it was busy, so I hung up and tried again later but it was _still_ busy, and then the next time the line was dead and so was his house and now the _cell_ service is down-”

“Nike,” his wife murmured, kissing him. “Come to bed. We’ll go see _Padre_ tomorrow, okay? He’ll be able to help.”

Nikephoros sighed and looked sorrowfully at the phone.

“But _Patέras_ -”

“I know you’re worried, but we can’t do anything about it. Greece isn’t going away anytime soon.”

“But the _government-_ ”

“There’s more to a Nation than a government. Those come and go. The land is still there, and the people. Your father will be _fine._ ”

* * *

Feliks was in his kitchen, all the lights off, getting himself a glass of water. It was still quite dark outside, without even a hint of false dawn.

Warsaw was mostly quiet- it was city, it never truly stopped, even during the worst dark and stormy nights- especially in this nice little residential area Feliks had found for himself not too long ago.

The house creaked.

 _Floor beams,_ his brain said.

 _Floor_ boards _,_ his instincts said, and sent his hand reaching for a knife.

Poland looked at his hand a moment, put his glass down, and slipped into the living room, which simultaneously had a nice selection of old swords and a good view of the tiny hall area just beyond the front door.

A door which was -suspiciously- slightly open.

 _The Koncerz is for plate armor,_ Feliks reminded himself as he looked at his display of old weapons. _Szabla’s better._

He unhooked the cavalry sabre from its place on the wall and padded silently over to the open entryway that led from the living room to the hall.

He could hear hushed voices now, obscured slightly by the rain falling outside.

The door opened all the way, and someone stepped inside and walked forward.

"Halt,” Poland ordered, twirling out from behind the wall and placing the edge of the sabre lightly against an intruder’s throat.

There was a high, strangled sob, and Feliks flipped the lights on.

A teenage girl started wide-eyed and tearful at him over the sabre, utterly terrified, and _with a baby in her arms._

Feliks raised an eyebrow.

“Explain.”

* * *

The front door of Sweden’s house banged open, and Finland awoke with a start.

Berwald was still in bed next to him.

“Who?” Timo whispered.

Sweden reached over his lover and picked up his glasses from the nightstand, putting them on as he sat up.

“Don’t know.”

Finland rolled out from under the covers and landed on the hardwood floor silently, crouched down. He reached under the bed and pulled out his rifle.

Sweden already had the door open. Timo rushed past him as quietly as he could and ducked down behind the railing on the landing of the stairs. He had the perfect view of the living room, and there was someone-

“Get out from behind the couch and put your hands up!” he yelled. “Three seconds or I shoot!”

“ _Isä!_ ” the man in the living room yelled back. “I’m _not_ going to steal your stuff!”

“Armas!” Finland cried, shouldering his rifle. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

“Quit.”

 _“What?”_ he demanded, taking the stairs two at a time. _“Why?”_

“People looked at me funny.”

“That’s _no_ reason to quit your job!” his father scolded him, entering the living room. Berwald’s footsteps were heavy on the stairs behind him. “And why aren’t you at your own apartment?”

“Kicked out,” his son said, gesturing at the bags dumped at the head of the couch. “Didn’t pay the rent.”

_“Armas!”_

“I’m staying on _Far_ ’s couch,” the man in question said, collapsing onto it to prove his point. (Father)

“Why didn’t you pay y’ur rent?” Berwald asked, looking at his younger son curiously.

“Didn’t want to stay,” Armas said into the pillow. “They were looking at me funny.”

 _“Armas!”_ Timo exclaimed again.

“They all know about _Eluf; okay!_ ”

A car drove by outside.

“Oh,” Timo said.

Armas turned over on the couch.

“Nobody wants to be around the brother of an assassin. I’m not putting up with them anymore.”

Berwald sat down on the edge of the couch and stroked his son’s hair.

“They’ll stop event’lly. You can stay here ‘ntil they stop.”

Armas snorted, but wrapped his arms around his father’s waist.

“Thanks- but that will be forever.”

“Forev’r’s good.”

Finland left to put his rifle back and start breakfast.

* * *

“Mornin’.”

“Look at this, Alfred,” the man at the table said, gesturing with his fork at the television. “Isn’t this something?”

Alfred collapsed into the chair and started groggily at the screen.

“Wha’?”

“A politician, entering the final stretch of a Presidential campaign, insulting and slandering his opponent in every imaginable way!” Adlai Whitaker, Fiftieth President of the United States, sounded positively gleeful. “And the best part is, I’m _completely_ out of it!”

 “Urgh,” America replied, dropping his head to the table.

“Not very articulate today, are we? Anything wrong?”

“Nuthin’.”

“Only six more months,” President Whitaker told himself happily. “Six more months, and I won’t have to deal with this anymore!”

He paused to look at his Nation, half-asleep on the top of his dining room table.

“Not that I don’t like you,” he added as an afterthought.

“Inno.”

The President switched the television off to avoid the early-morning talk shows.

“You’re not getting sick, are you?” he asked in concern. “I know globalization makes things spread fast, and with Greece-”

_“M’fine!”_

“It’s just that Finland’s economy has been wavering since the end of last year and _Borsa Italiana_ opened this morning with a twenty percent drop in overall value; and the London Stock Exchange wasn’t much better-” (Italian Stock Exchange)

“Wasshat?”

“-and those Chinese rebels are acting up again. Oh, and Havana was seized around one-thirty this morning by _La Liga de Antiespín_. That sort of unrest isn’t good for economies, either.”

“Where’s the paper?”

“Paper?” the President asked, confused. “Do you want to take notes?”

“ _News_ report!” America clarified, awake now. “Where’s the report? How come all the good stuff happens while I’m sleeping?”

* * *

Cuba sat in a chair in his hallway, legs crossed, smoking.

Presently, there was a series of sharp, polite knocks on his door.

He got up and opened it.

Zacarías saluted.

“I’m in Havana, _Papá_ ,” he said. “Just like you wanted, public support and everything.”

 Cuba nodded to himself and looked around the street.

“Yep. I see the house on the end is still burning.”

Zacarías winced.

“We tried _, Papá_ -”

“Know you did. Coulda done better, but hey, revolutions are messy things.”

He pointed his cigar at his son’s companion.

“That _El Jefazo_?”

“Yes, _Papá_.”

“Hmm,” Cuba remarked, sizing the man up. “Adán Salcedo Esparza. Wondered where you went after you broke out of jail.”

The leader of the resistance looked a little thrown, but rallied well.

“An honor to meet you, _Señor_ ,” he said, extending his hand.

Cuba shook it firmly.

“Marco Echemendia. _República de Cuba._ Zacarías’s dad. You the one in charge now?”

“ _Sí_.”

“Oh yeah?” Marco asked, taking another drag of his cigar.

Zacarías moved away slightly. He knew trouble when he saw it.

“The people supported the LAE. They supported _me._ ”

“And that’s how it works?”

“ _Sí_.”

“Adán, are you a god-fearing man?” Cuba asked.

“Excuse me?” the other man asked, thrown by the sudden change in topic.

“Simple question. You devout? Go to church every Sunday? Pray regularly? Live your life by the Ten Commandments and His holy word? _Are you god-fearing?_ ”

The resistance leader still looked completely lost.

“Um…no?”

“Good,” Marco replied, grinding his cigar out on the ashtray he kept on his deck. “Me neither.”

He punched _El Jefazo_ in the face.

* * *

Øystein Brynjarsson checked the nearest street sign to make sure that he really was on City Road, Cardiff, and walked into the coffeehouse.

“Øystein!” a familiar voice exclaimed.

His head whipped around.

“ _Ásdís?_ ” he asked incredulously. “What are _you_ doing in Wales? Shouldn’t you be in Los Angeles?”

Ásdís gestured impatiently to the other empty seat at her small table.

“Shouldn’t _you_ be in Las Vegas?” she asked, giving him a look that clearly said _‘don’t mention Los Angeles!’_.

Ah; so she was being incognito- Ásdís Geirsdottir, Coffee-Lover; not Ásdís Geirsdottir, Temperamental Millionaire Movie Star.

“I… got an invitation,” Øystein told her. “And a pre-paid ticket. With instructions.”

Ásdís raised her eyebrows and glared, putting her coffee mug down a bit too hard on the table.

“What does Cassiel Beilschmidt want with _you?_ ” she demanded. “And why a _one-way_ ticket?”

“He asked you here, too?”

A white leather pouch dropped into their field of vision, making a clattering noise as it was shaken around.

“Runecasting?” Cassiel asked.

“Cassiel Pietri Beilschmidt-Navin-” Ásdís began angrily as he dragged an extra chair across the table and sat down.

“You sound just like Mr. Kirkland when you say that,” he interrupted her as he put the cloth pouch on the table. “Or my mother.”

He fished around in the bag.

“I took out all the middle bits, by the way. Well, not _officially,_ but it’s so much easier to just say ‘Cassiel Navin’, isn’t it? Plus, my birth certificate says I was born in Jerusalem. Jewish name, Jewish birthplace. It’s easier to just let people make some assumptions than explain the whole ‘Jerusalem to Berlin to Rome and back again’ saga, don’t you think?”

Cassiel pulled a tile out of his bag and looked at it with interest.

“Hmm,” he said, placing the tile on the table so they could all see it. “Thurisaz. Not very enlightening all by itself, is it?”

“What are you playing at, Cassiel?” Ásdís asked.

 _“Playing?”_ Cassiel asked, sounding incredulous. “I’m not playing at anything.”

“You’re lucky that I even managed to get out here,” Øystein said, rubbing his temples. “Vegas shows aren’t often cancelled, and I have another one tomorrow night. I can’t stay long, so if you could just get to the _point-_ ”

“The point?”

Cassiel put Thurisaz back into his bag.

“The point is that I am a genius mastermind who is about three steps away from kick-starting science into _lightspeed_ progress, and the whole process could get started quite a bit faster if you two signed onto the ride today.”

* * *

“Mr. Braginski?”

Russia grunted, still asleep.

Pavel Laurinaitis shook his uncle once again.

 _“Hey!”_ a high-pitched, insistent voice demanded.

“Sh!” Pavel scolded sharply, then shook Russia again.

“Mr. Braginski, _pozhalujsta_ ,” he pleaded quietly. “Wake _up._ There’s an emergency.”

“‘Merg’ncy?” Ivan muttered, stirring slightly.

“ _Da_ , Mr. Braginski.”

“Wake up!” a different voice demanded, and Russia awoke with an _‘oof’_ as something heavy landed on his stomach.

“Pavel,” he muttered, “Do not do that. I am awake, _da_? Is it the _Evrozona_ again? Is it little _Finljandija_ or _Grecija_?”

 “It wasn’t me,” Pavel said. “That was part of your emergency.”

Ivan grunted again and sat up, opening his eyes.

A small girl glared at him, her dark eyes narrowed in anger behind her messy black hair.

Russia was distinctly unimpressed.

“Pavel, a small child is _not_ anemergency,” he said severely.

Pavel shifted.

“Well, there’s another one.”

The sheets on the bed twisted and shifted as another girl, older-looking, clawed her way onto the bed.

“ _La’amee!_ ” the first girl declared.

Ivan didn’t hear her, too caught up in the second girl’s dark red eyes. He reached out to touch her gray, fluffy-looking hair.

She shoved herself back to the foot of the bed.

“ _Freedom!"_

Russia thought he was starting to get a hold on what the emergency was.

“Who are you, _Maljutka_?” he asked, voice falsely pleasant.

 _"Kyonig!”_ the second said loudly, pounding her fists on the mattress.

 _“Noxc̈iyn Respublika!”_ spat the first girl.

The four of them sat there quietly for a little while as Ivan contemplated what a strange picture they must make.

“Pavel.”

“Yes?”

“Did you tell the President-”

“No.”

“Good. Do _not._ Go- go start breakfast. And find me a Russian-Chechen dictionary, _da_?”

* * *

Tai Wang stood in Terminal 3 of Beijing Capital International Airport, clutching his passport and staring desperately at the crowds gathered around the luggage pick-up.

He’d managed to get through the check-in and his passport had been inspected briefly without comment- clearly, his _Nonno_ ’s connections really _were_ that good.

 _The man with the sign,_ he reminded himself. _I want the man with the sign that says ‘Tai Fernandez’._

His _Mamma_ knew better than to put his _Babá_ ’s name on the passport. Now he just had to remember that.

_I can’t forget. They’ve put too much effort into this, and I want it too much, to let it go to waste._

* * *

Heinrich was in the dressing room when his phone buzzed.

_'Hey I need to talk to you’_

He gave the first text a cursory glance.

_‘Not now I’m in dress rehearsals’_

' _Well you’re in Stuttgart right? What are you putting on?’_

_‘Tristan und Isolde’_

On the other side of the phone connection, Nico was silent for long enough that Heinrich finished getting his costume on.

_‘I’ll be there for opening in a couple weeks meet me after the show’_

_‘Fine’_

* * *

 Feliks took the finished coffee out into his living room, where the girl he’d caught sat shivering, wrapped up in a blanket against the cold in her bones from walking in the rain and terror of being questioned at sword-point by a man she now knew to be her Nation.

“Here you go,” he told her, handing her the cup.

She took it warily, eyes flickering between his face and the weapons on the wall and her newborn child, propped up happily on the couch in a nest of pillows and small blankets.

“I didn’t like, _do_ anything to it,” he assured her. “Just drink.”

She took a gulp and twitched a little.

“It’s hot,” Feliks reminded her with a smile, sitting down on the couch next to her. “You’re _sure_ you can’t go home?”

“Not with Roksana,” the girl whispered. “ _Mama_ got really really mad when I told her and _Tata_ threw me out and- and- and- I can’t just leave Roksana all alone but I can’t keep hi-hiding in churches and things now because she needs somewhere safe and warm now that she’s born b-b-bu-”

Teodozja Pakulski- fifteen, single mother, disowned from her family- dissolved into sobbing for the second time that night.

Feliks held her until she felt better.

“Please, _Pan Polska_ ,” she managed to get out. “Please, _please_ help Roksana. I-I-I don’t want to leave her b-but I can’t k-keep her, so _please-_ ”

 “What about Roksana’s father?” he asked.

“M-Mieczysław do-doesn’t want her or me!” Teodozja sobbed. “I t-told him th-that I was pregnant and he said he couldn’t help! A-a-and I was too scared t-to ask _Pani_ Król b-because she’s really _fierce_ -”

“ _Pani_ Król?” Feliks asked. “Like, _Grażyna_ Król?”

Teodozja nodded miserably.

“Y-Y-You _know_ her?” she asked.

“I know where she, like, _lives,_ ” Feliks told her quickly.

He glanced at the infant on his couch, trying not to look completely shellshocked.

 _My great-granddaughter. How totally crazy is_ that _?_

Teodozja sniffed.

“ _Pan Polska_?”

“Yeah?”

“A-Am I going to get in trouble?”

“Well, I’m not gonna, like, turn you _in_ or anything. Since you’re totally sure you’ve got nowhere to go.”

_My great-granddaughter._

“ _Dziękuję,_ ” she said weakly, clearly relieved.

_Roksana._

“So, you like, want a room? I’ve got _tons_ of extra space.”

Teodozja stared at him.

“I’m being totally serious here,” Feliks told her. “You don’t want to leave Roksana. I like, _totally_ get that. You were gonna leave her here for me as a like, ‘ward of the state’ thing; but I _caught_ you, so now I’m saying you can seriously stay until we like, figure something out.”

 _“Really?”_ Teodozja whispered.

“How many times do I have to like, say it? You’re totally allowed to stay.”

* * *

Giuditta settled her infant daughter higher in her arms and pointed at the doorbell.

“Look, look, Loni. This is a doorbell, okay? _Un campanello_. We can ring it and _Nonno_ Vino will come out!”

Apollonia, responding to the encouraging tone of her mother’s voice, was staring at the doorbell in great curiosity. She gurgled and waved a hand at it.

“You want to press the doorbell, Loni?” Ditta asked, taking her daughter’s hand. “Okay, then, _Grecina_ , here we go-”

She pressed gently on the back of Apollonia’s little hand until the doorbell depressed and a few faint computerized tones made their way through the heavy wood door.

The door opened almost immediately.

“ _Padre_!” Giuditta said brightly. “Nike and Loni and I- _Zia_ Spasia?”

Nikephoros backed up. It wasn’t that he _disliked_ the eldest of the various Italian Nations.

It was just that Vespasia Marconi (who still refused the name ‘Vargas’) was, well-

-she was Sicily.

A tall, dusky woman who just _radiated_ majesty and authority, all from within the confines of a dark red skirt suit, hair pulled half-up artfully in a way that let her keep her hair out of her eyes but still tumbling nicely.

 He’d been informed that her fashion had barely changed in all the centuries she’d lived. Sicily was a woman of habit and tradition- and when she was in a house, she _owned_ it. Nikephoros attempted to cheer himself up with the thought that his father-in-law would likely not be swearing quite so much today.

 “ _Zia_!” Giuditta exclaimed happily, taking her aunt’s presence completely for granted. “We just came to talk to _Padre_ about Nike’s father since we couldn’t reach him last ni-”

Sicily plucked Apollonia from her mother’s arms.

“Sitting room. He showed up early this morning. Everyone’s here now.”

“Hm?” Ditta asked.

Nikephoros pushed past the both of them and dashed into the sitting room.

Everyone really _was_ there. His father-in-law was pacing aimlessly but determinedly around the room, muttering to himself. The Vatican was sitting very stiffly in an antique-looking chair, eyes following his elder brother. Seborga had claimed the coffee table and was quietly sketching the corner of the room, where another woman he vaguely remembered being at his wedding was sitting.

Sardinia- that was who it was. The bitter one who always had to be dragged off her island.

Veneziano was draped across the back of the couch, watching his brother’s houseguest’s face-

“ _Patέras_!”

He dashed to the couch and knelt down beside it, grabbing his father’s hand.

It was deathly cold.

* * *

England watched the woman and child cut across the park grass surreptitiously as he fumbled for his phone.

He pulled it out and stood, ambling after the two and trying to look inconspicuous.

“Kirkland,” he said into the phone.

“Yo, dude, what’s _up_ with your stock exchange?”

Arthur cursed to himself. America was interrupting his _personal_ time.

“Sometimes they have bad openings,” he said curtly, trying to focus on the child’s yellow bag and the woman’s navy shirt. Those were the only things differentiating them from the slew of other parents and children beginning to appear. “You _know_ that, Alfred!”

“But the Bossman said that Italy and Romano’s stocks opened down too, and Finland’s still sick and Greece-”

“I _don’t_ want to hear about Greece!” he snapped.

It was the first day of school. That was _important._

“But En _glaaaaaand-_ ”

“Don’t you have _things_ to do?”

“This _is_ a thing to do! It’s on the Bossman’s _‘List of Stuff for Alfred to Do Today’_ \- _Number 2: Call England-_ ”

Arthur cursed. His former charge’s blathering had made him lose his focus. The woman and her child were gone.

“What was number one?” England asked America, hoping that it would be something important enough to get him off the phone.

“ _‘Get to bed on time, ‘cause you’re not awake enough in the mornings’_!”

Something bumped into England’s leg, and he looked down.

A girl with a yellow bag was clutching his pant leg, staring up at him with wide hazel eyes.

Arthur opened his mouth, but something caught in his throat.

“Yo, England, you still there?” America asked. His voice sounded distant through the phone.

The girl blinked, and looked intently at the air over England’s shoulder.

“Are _you_ friends with Ainsel, too?”

Arthur’s eyes flickered to the side. His little fairy sometimes-companion was perched on his shoulder, waving at the girl.

The girl waved back.

England’s mind went blank.

“Lana! _Eglantine!_ ”

The woman in the navy shirt trotted over quickly and took her daughter’s hand firmly.

“Lana-” she started to scold.

“Mum, the nice man knows Ainsel!” Eglantine said excitedly, bouncing in place.

The woman blinked and looked at Arthur, their perfectly-matched green eyes meeting for a second. She looked like she was thinking something, but the look hid itself behind a polite mask of slight embarrassment.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Irene Walker said. “My daughter likes to pull people into her fantasies. We’ll let you get back to your conversation now.”

She walked off, pulling Lana, who yelled-

“ _Bye,_ Ainsel! Say hi to the nice man for me!”

-with her.

“Dude, who was _that?_ ”

“None of your bloody business!” Arthur nearly screamed, finding his voice again.

A lot parents glared at him disapprovingly for a moment, and England quickly left school property, crossing the street back into the park.

“You were _totally_ stalking your daughter again! England, seriously, that’s _not_ cool-”

 “It’s not your business,” he hissed, and swiftly turned his phone off so he wouldn’t have to hear any more about the family life he freely admitted was a pathetic mess.

* * *

Adán Salcedo Esparza groaned, blinked, and realized he was staring at the underside of someone’s porch roof.

_Where- I was-_

Cuba squatted down next to him, taking up his immediate vision.

“And _that’s_ what the people think of _you_ , ‘ _El Jefazo’_ ,” he said, jabbing a new, lit cigar in his face.

“Don’t- Don’t you have to listen to me?” Adán asked weakly, head still spinning.

“You ain’t in charge yet!” Cuba declared. “ _Nobody’s_ in charge of me right now!”

“But- But I’m in charge of the LAE-”

“Yeah? Well, the LAE’s not my government!”

Adán managed to sit up without the world flipping over. That was good.

“Then who gives you orders?”

Cuba blew some smoke at him.

“I guess it’s me. Right now my kids- the citizens of Cuba, to you- are listening to you ‘cause you’re the big hero. But they want elections, not despots!”

Zacarías decided to take a little bit of pity on his technically-boss and helped Adán stand up.

“They want _elections!_ ” Cuba continued. “ _I_ want elections! And I can’t stand guys with big-ego nicknames _or_ heroes! Now get off my porch and start working on some democracy! I’ve almost forgotten what it looks like!”

Zacarías stood around uncertainly as _El Jefazo_ stumbled off down the street.

“Sit down, son,” Cuba said. “Been too long since you saw civilization, even if bits of it are on fire. And you’re gonna have some ice cream whether you like it or not!”

“ _Sí, Papá_ ,” he sighed. “Whatever you say.”

“That’s damn right, whatever I say.”

* * *

Pavel tried to ignore the child who was currently occupying Russia’s chair at the table and focus on making blini, but the girl was making it very hard to concentrate.

“May there always be sunshine,” she sang, as he mixed the ingredients. “May there always be blue skies-"

“May there always be Mama,” she sang, as he started baking the blini in the pan.

 _This girl, whatever she may be,_ cannot _sing-_

“May there always-"

“Will you _please_ stop!” Pavel demanded. “Don’t you realize how _annoying_ that is?”

The girl stared blankly at him _._

Pavel turned the stove off. The blini were almost done- and he had a pressing question to ask.

“Where did you even come _up_ with the name 'Gisbertovich'? Prussia hasn't been Kaliningrad since-”

 _“Kyonig!”_ the girl demanded, her wine-colored eyes flashing.

“So do you like Königsberg better, then-”

 _“Kyo-nig_ , _”_ she pronounced slowly, clearly believing that he didn’t understand.

Pavel sighed, frustrated. He clearly wasn’t cut out for dealing with small, stubborn children.

“ _Fine._ Kyonig, where did you hear about Prussia?”

She tapped her head.

“You just knew it?”

She nodded.

“Nations make no sense to me,” he muttered, and served the blini.

* * *

“You’re just insane,” Ásdís decided.

“ _She’s_ a high-paid movie star diva and _I’m_ a low-budget Vegas stage magician!” Øystein exclaimed, ignoring the dirty look his cousin shot him. “How are _we_ supposed to help science!”

Cassiel smiled thinly and leaned back in his chair a little.

“ _You’re_ low-budget because half that _‘stage magic’_ is the real thing,” he said. “ _She’s_ high-paid because she has the _best_ screen presence anyone can remember seeing in a long time.”

Ásdís’s eyes flickered to Øystein for a moment, who looked temporarily stunned.

“That still doesn’t explain anything,” she said quietly, on edge.

“He has to keep the stage crew and theater techies happy by disguising his real magic as clever props and specially-modified equipment,” Cassiel replied. “You- you’ve got _it._ The screen presence. Charisma. People _want_ to listen to you, be around you, know what you’re doing.”

“Also untold wealth and fame,” she muttered.

“ _That_ ,” Cassiel said triumphantly. “ _Exactly_ that. _That’s_ what I’m talking about, _right_ there. The conversational attitude, the touch of temper, everything.”

“Are you _trying_ to flatter me?”

 “What exactly do you want, Cassiel?” Øystein asked, derailing the argument before it could start.

“Me?”

Cassiel leaned forward. The other two unconsciously copied him.

“I want to reconcile the differences between science and magic to create the sort of world people have been dreaming of since science fiction was invented. _‘_ _Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic’_ \- I’m going to _prove_ that; only by meeting the two halfway.”

“Insane,” Ásdís restated.

“Now, how can you say that with the way we’ve grown up?” Cassiel asked. “Does science have any good reason for why our parents work the way they do? Travel distances like they do? Live as long as they do? Get injured? Heal? _Live?_ ”

Their little corner of the coffeehouse was silent.

“Magic doesn’t either. I’ve _studied_ magic, the sorts that Arthur Kirkland has in his library and the sorts that haven’t been in print for centuries and the ones that get passed down through word of mouth and the just plain made up ones in the fantasy section of any bookstore. They all work the same- you do something the right way, some sort of ritual, no matter how simple, and you get a result. Our parents don’t do that. They just _do_ it. That’s more like biology or physics, stuff that just _happens_ without anyone thinking about it- and _that’s_ science.”

“You’ve been thinking about this for a long time, haven’t you?” Øystein asked suspiciously.

Cassiel shrugged.

“I’m smart. These are the sorts of things you come up with when you’re smart. And bored. Or just curious. Usually all three at the same time, they tend to go together pretty well.”

“So you’re saying we could _really_ do this?” Ásdís asked. “Bring together magic and science and find that happy little middle ground our parents live in and make a sci-fi utopia?”

“Not a utopia,” Cassiel replied, shaking his head. “ _Never_ that. Just something better. Not _immediately,_ but we could make some good progress soon.”

Ásdís looked like she was starting to understand.

“And you need me to sell it and finance it and Øystein to figure out how to hide the magic part in the science part, since we don’t want people thinking we should be institutionalized instead of listened too.”

Cassiel smiled happily.

“Exactly like that, but not quite! Close enough for now! So, are you two in?”

Ásdís just sipped the last of her coffee. Øystein drummed his fingers on the table and stared hard at the cloth pouch sitting in front of Cassiel.

Cassiel saw him looking.

“You know they work,” he said slyly.

“Switch with me,” Øystein demanded, standing up abruptly. “You’ve got the north-facing chair.”

Cassiel obliged and they switched. Øystein opened the bag and fished around until he found a white cloth square at the bottom of the bag.

He laid it out on the table, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

_What will this venture mean for us?_

He picked a rune lot from the bag and placed in the center of the cloth.

_Raido. Journeys and decisions. I already knew that was my problem._

Another lot.

_Fehu. Material gain and success. That’s how I got here, my Vegas job._

Next was the rune lot for the help to be received or sacrifices to be made.

_Laguz. Supernatural forces and personal gifts._

He noticed Cassiel watching him with keen interest. The other man, he remembered, knew about how these runes worked.

The rune lot for obstacles to be overcome.

_Nauthiz. Limitations, need, trying times. **Seriously?**_

The last rune was for the course of action to take. This was the important one.

_Mannaz. Interdependence- seek advice from, rely on, and work with others._

Øystein glared at the five runes now laid out in a cross shape on the cloth in front of him.

“Øystein?” Ásdís asked, looking at the small stone tiles warily.

He swept the runes back into the pouch, cinched it shut, and shook it around before opening it again and thrusting it at her.

“Pick one.”

“Øyst-”

_“Pick one.”_

She stuck her hand in the bag and pulled out a lot.

“What’s it look like?” he asked.

“Kind of like a pointy ‘P’,” she said, showing it to him.

_Wunjo. Bliss. Absence of suffering, good fortune on your side._

Øystein sighed tensely and snatched the rune from her, dropping it back in the pouch and stuffing the cloth in after it.

 _I’m doing a Futhark layout and the First Ætt wheel after this,_ he promised himself.

“So, what do you have so far?” he asked Cassiel, shoving the bag back at him.

Cassiel smiled, stood, stretched, and half-turned towards the door.

“Come and see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Isä (Finnish)_ : Father  
>  _Far (Swedish)_ : Father  
>  _La Liga de Antiespín (Spanish)_ : The Anti-Espín League  
>  _El Jefazo (Spanish)_ : The Big Boss  
>  _Pozhalujsta (Russian)_ : Please  
>  _La'amee (Noxc̈hiin Mott)_ : Independence  
>  _Maljutka (Russian)_ : Little one  
>  _Noxc̈iyn Respublika (Noxc̈hiin Mott)_ : Chechen Republic  
>  _Pan Polska (Polish)_ : Mr. Poland  
>  _Pani (Polish)_ : Ms. or Mrs.  
>  _Dziękuję (Polish)_ : Thank you  
>  _Grecina (Italian)_ : Little Grecian


	14. 2047: September (1)

“No, look, you can’t come,” Pavel Laurinaitis told Noxc̈iyn _/_ Chechnya.

“Yes I can!” the girl insisted.

“No, you _can’t._ It’s a UN Meeting and you haven’t been recognized by the UN-”

“I’ll go and make them!”

“Yakhiyta Ivanova Kazbek, you are not going to this meeting and that is _final!_ ” Pavel declared, fed up with arguing. It seemed like that was all his life was, lately. Arguing with incredibly stubborn Nation-children. “You are _still_ a part of the Russian Federation and until such time that you successfully declare independence, you will _stay_ here unless ordered otherwise!”

He closed the briefcase he had been stuffing with important documents closed and dragged Yakhiyta out of Russia’s study, locking the door firmly behind them. The little girl shook his hand off and dashed away, presumably to sulk and plot future havoc.

Pavel picked up the suitcase he’d left at the top of the landing and stomped down the stairs.

“Somebody sounds like they’re ready for parenthood,” a voice called.

Pavel stopped for a moment and leaned over the banister.

“We could hear you down here,” Anatoli Braginski told him, looking at him from over the top of the couch. “You sounded like Sofya when she has to get Yasha to let me go to work.”

“I don’t want any children,” Pavel muttered, finishing his descent and plopping the bags by the front door.

“Come sit,” Anatoli called. “Fill me in. Who’s my son playing with?”

Pavel collapsed on the couch next to his friend and glanced at the young girl playing with his employer’s grandson.

“That’s the Republic of Karelia. Oksana Ivanova-”

The girl stopped for a moment and looked up at him.

“ _Karjalan Tazavalda_ ,” she corrected him primly. “Senja Väinämöinen.”

“Dear Lord,” Anatoli said, as the children started playing with the blocks again. “Finnish?”

“Karelian. Finnish name. She’s not the worst one.”

Anatoli drummed his fingers on the couch armrest.

“Pasha?”

“Yeah, Ana?”

“How bad _is_ it? Really?”

Pavel glanced around.

“How do you mean?” he asked, lowering his voice.

“I asked _Papa_ ,” Anatoli replied, lowering his voice as well. “But he just smiled and changed the subject. Ma wouldn’t say anything when I asked her.”

“Ana-”

“Pasha, I just want to know if my father’s in trouble. He’s the Russian _Federation_. This-”

He gestured at Karelia.

“-they’re new _Nations._ _Countries._ They die or split. I-”

Pavel covered his friend’s mouth.

“The house isn’t big enough for all of them,” he whispered.

Anatoli’s eyes widened in horror, and he pulled his friend’s hand away.

His hand free now, Pavel took out a small pad of paper and started writing on it.

“No, Pasha, don’t! Russia’s _plenty-_ ”

 “Pavel!” Russia called from somewhere in the house. “Everything is packed, _da_? Where is the budget? I need to look it over on the flight!”

“I’ll get it for you, Mr. Braginski!” Pavel called back, standing.

“Pa-” Anatoli tried.

Pavel tore of the paper he’d been writing on and shoved it into Anatoli’s hands.

Russia’s son stared at it for a moment, then collected his son and walked out the door to his car. After he’d secured Yakov, he sat in the driver’s seat and smoothed out the sheet.

 

_Kaliningrad_   
_Karelia_   
_Chechnya_   
_Dagestan_   
_Ingushetia_   
_North Ossetia-Alaina_   
_Kabardino-Balkaria_   
_Karachay-Cherkessia_

“Oh God,” Anatoli whispered. “The North Caucus.”

* * *

 Yao stood in the hallway outside his grandson’s room and massaged his aching shoulder.

 _I can’t leave him here,_ he told himself. I don’t trust these people. _Government minders, all of Them._

He’d managed to keep any potential problems to a minimum by having Tai with him as often as possible. But this cover that had been devised for his grandson- adopted as a child by foreigners, wants to come back and learn about his heritage- sounded good on paper only.

 _I’m too nervous,_ China thought, wincing as he a particularly sore spot. _It’s showing, I know it is. They can’t catch on-_

A sudden stab of pain lanced up from his side and shot into his head. He braced himself against the wall and hissed in pain, breathing through his clenched teeth.

 _Dissidents. Troublemakers. Rioters,_ said the Nation part of his brain, the little bit that used to make him bend at the knees to his Emperors and made him applaud his Presidents’ speeches now and still, _still,_ no matter how many centuries upon centuries went by, slipped up behind the pitiful excuse for a free will that his kind had and strangled it whenever he was given an order-

 _Revolutionaries. Idealists. Demonstrators,_ said the free will that simply refused to acknowledge the inevitable and always got up, again and again, much like the Nation it served.

 _Change,_ Yao’s mind decided. _Violent change. There will be fires and explosions and looting. There always are. I can always shut Tai in the library and tell them that he’s learning ancient history._

He shuffled off towards his room.

_And he would be. I have books that would take a professional their whole life to translate. It will keep him out of trouble._

* * *

Lovino finished securing his tie in an artful state of fashionable disarray and loomed over his couch, arms crossed.

“You coming?” he asked the still figure on his couch.

There was no reply, as usual.

“You’re not doing anybody any fucking good just lying around like a freeloading piece of shit.”

Greece’s eyelids stayed resolutely shut.

“Did you lose your fucking mind or something? We’ve got a meeting.”

No sound but the other Nation’s too-shallow breathing.

“In _New York,_ ” Romano emphasized. “At the _UN._ ”

He glared, but it didn’t alleviate the feeling of talking to a brick wall.

“Well, _fine. Be_ that way, damn lazy bastard. _Don’t_ be any fucking help.”

Romano turned on his heel.

“Your children are starving and burning in the streets and you won’t do a thing in hell to help them. Fucking _brilliant_ time to be a slothful little shit-sucking freeloading jackass bastard eight-hundred-something fucking kilometers from home who’s going to look Saint Michael in the face one day and realize that there’s _no fucking way_ he can ever repent for _abandoning_ his people-” 

 _“Dying,”_ Greece rasped, his voice barely above a whisper.

Romano froze.

“The fuck?”

“ _Feel_ it.”Heracles’s voice was rough and thick from disuse and sickness. _“Fading._ No hope. No government. No _structure._ ”

The Nation twitched and shivered all over a moment.

 _“Boήtheia. Auito._ Help me _.”_

Lovino watched as his houseguest’s eyelids cracked open. His head lolled to the side, and he shakily held a hand out.

“ _Nάpolh_ , help me.”

* * *

 “ _Pan Polska_ , are you going somewhere?”

Feliks looked at Teodozja over the slice of rye bread shoved in his mouth, one hand busy getting himself more kabanos.

“Since you’re all dressed up,” she clarified, a bit nervously. “You usually wear suits, but I haven’t seen that briefcase before-”

Poland tore off the bread hanging out of his mouth and swallowed.

“Yeah. I’ve got like, a totally important meeting in New York,” he told his technically-renter, waving the rest of the slice around vaguely. “UN opens today, and everybody gets together for a big meeting. We never really like, _accomplish_ a lot, but we do it anyway. It’s _totally_ just for socialization, unless there’s something crazy-serious-important to talk about.”

He poured himself more tea.

“Germany will like, try and _force_ us to do stuff, but he’s a _total_ pain in the ass so we just ignore him.”

“ _P-_ ”

Teodozja fell silent and fidgeted, toying with her eggs.

“Dosia,” Feliks said. “If you want to like, _say_ something, just say it. I _know_ we covered this.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Don’t be. And you can totally call me Feliks.”

“But-”

“ _Pan_ Łukasiewicz if you gotta be formal about it, okay?”

“Okay.”

“So…”

“I- I’m really grateful for everything,” she said carefully. “But I’m taking up space in your house and I’m not paying you or anything-”

“You totally don’t have to. You’re one of my people and you need help. Don’t need money.”

“It’s been a month and I haven’t worked anything out-”

“Dosia-”

“I’ve got to pay you back for giving us a place to live and buying things for Roksana but I don’t have any money,” she replied continued hurriedly. “So I can do chores or whatever you need me to, I know how dust and polish and wash floors and organize-”

“I don’t-”

“ _Please_ , _Pan P_ \- _Pan_ Łukasiewicz, I can’t just take all this for _nothing!_ ”

“It’s like, Good Samaritanism-”

“I still have to repay your kindness somehow! God says that’s what we should do!”

Feliks stared at her for a moment, then smiled a bit and made a small, amused noise.

“I’m inviting Liet and Erzsi and Krzyś - uh, Lithuania andHungary and the Vatican over after the meeting for dinner and stuff,” he told her. “And _Czeska_ and Slovakia if they want to come. I’m gonna be gone for like, all today, but if you could get some rooms ready and get some food out and clean up a bit, that would be totally cool.”

Teodozja sprang up.

“Yes! Yes, absolutely, of course! I’ll have it all done before you get back!”

* * *

Nia stuffed her hands in the pockets of her jacket and ducked into the Stuttgart metro. She’d given herself time today before the opening night of her twin brother’s latest opera performance to partake in her favorite pastime- city wandering.

She got on the train, idled away an uncounted number of stops people watching, then got off arbitrarily. The city was cold for just-barely-autumn, but it was nice. Nia felt she’d gotten used to living in Denmark lately, too much time spent with her fencing trainees, keeping them in practice to qualify for the Olympics- and they were very good!

Just, teenagers, even ones as good as Mari and Hagen weren’t her _Babbo_ or _Zio_ Lovino. Not even _Onkle_ Gilbert. It wasn’t like anyone could teach her much of anything, after them. She taught to keep in herself practice as best she could.

 _And boost my self-image,_ she thought wryly, remembering the first training session she’d had with a non-family member, when all she’d had before was facing off in fencing duels where she was severely outmatched in reflexes and speed by one of her relatives. It had taken awhile to get used to the idea that she _could_ actually beat someone in practice.

The streets were pleasantly crowded, and Nia found herself in a part of the city with small shops and offices of service businesses.

One caught her eye- it was one of the political communes she’d gotten used to seeing, where small, new, or poor political parties and groups shared a common office space for meetings and an information center. They were interesting to pay a visit, the information desk people were usually very interested in talking, and Zell would appreciate any news on developments from home.

* * *

Alfred appraised the meeting room with pride. Everybody’s places were set up- name card, thin portfolio with the ‘agenda’ and extra paper, a pen (because people _always_ forgot), and a glass of water.

Never mind that soon enough people were going to be re-arranging the name card placements to suit their plots and folding airplanes out of the paper and trying to put each other’s eyes out with the pens and spiking their neighbor’s glasses- it was all in order right _now._

The Hero had done his job!

“No touching!” America declared, spinning and pointing accusingly at a seat halfway down the table.

“But it’s _my_ water,” Canada protested weakly.

“You _do_ realize that we’re on international territory, right?” England asked, pulling his hand away from France’s name card. “It’s not your job to set up- though it _does_ prove you learned _something_ about manners from me.”

“This is still New York!” Alfred said. “And it was Ellie who taught me about this stuff!” 

“And who do you think taught _her_ about it?”

“Not _you!_ ”

“Close enough,” England replied, downed half his water glass, and dumped something clear into it.

“Aw, come _on!_ ”

Arthur ignored him and took his seat, opening his portfolio and pulling out the agenda.

“Who _typed_ this bloody thing?” he demanded, squinting at the print.

“I did!”

“America, this is a _disaster_ of spelling! _‘_ Everz _’_? _‘_ Armz _’_? _‘Zou’_? What are you trying to accomplish- gangster Chinese?”

“He was using a Qwertz keyboard,” Matthew said, trying to be helpful.

“Woah!” the other man exclaimed, eyes wide. “There’s such a thing?”

“ _No,_ you git! There’s just your- what the bloody hell is _this!_ Alfred, you _cannot_ spell ‘able’ with a lowercase beta!”

“A what now?” America asked as England took a pen out of his suit pocket and started to edit furiously. He flipped open his neighbors’ portfolios and pulled out their agendas, as well.

“A lowercase beta!” England repeated, glaring at him as he fixed spelling errors in triplicate. “I _know_ I taught you Greek and Latin! Were you even paying attention?”

“Dude, dead languages are _boring._ ”

“Latin is the foundation of _five_ European languages-”

“That’s _Europe._ ”

“And you should pay more attention to them,” Canada told his brother.

“-and there’s a _damn_ good bit of it in English-”

“Still boring,” Alfred replied, checking the time. “And I still dunno _what_ you’re talking about. Zell’s keyboard had two ‘B’s on it. And two ‘A’s and ‘O’s and ‘U’s! Germans are weird. Somebody’s gotta tell Ludwig he only needs one of each.”

“America, you twat, you’ve used eszett for every third ‘B’ on this whole bloody thing! You can’t even _use_ it at the beginning of words! And why on _Earth_ were you using Gisela’s computer?”

“What’s this ‘eszett’ thing? You were just talking about Greek-”

“Same letter, different languages! Why Gisela’s computer?”

“You European dudes are _weird._ And, uh, I took my computer with me to this campaign speech thing at Niagara Falls-”

“Oh, God, don’t tell me.”

“And there was this _falcon_ -”

“I said _don’t tell me!_ ” Arthur snapped. “I do _not_ want to listen to any more idiocy today!”

“Hold on a sec,” Alfred told him. “I’m gonna leave Ludwig a note about his crazy alphabet and then we can talk about your stalker tendencies.”

England gaped for a moment, and then snatched the paper America was writing on.

“I do _not_ have stalker tendencies!”

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” Matthew told his former colonizer. “But sometimes it really seems like you do. Or else you just can’t let people go.” 

“Dude, denial. Not just a ri-”

“Only in America could such _butchering_ of such a beautiful and versatile language occur in the name of a saying!”

“ _Hey! You’re_ the one who talks funny!”

“I do _not!_ My English was first, so, _de facto_ , _yours_ is the one deviating from the standard!”

“Pfah,” a familiar voice scoffed. “ _Une belle langue_? I think not, dear _Angleterre_. _Anglais_ is like gravel rattling in my ears.”

“Shut up, France!”

“Dude, stop insulting my language.”

“Can’t we just get along?” Matthew asked from his seat. “Can we _try,_ at least?”

“Now, what is this about stalking, _mon cher_?” Francis asked, sidling up to England. “Has someone fallen hopelessly _dans l’amour_?”

“He’s been watching his granddaughter every day when she comes to school,” Alfred supplied.

“Oh- _ho,_ _kinky._ I _knew_ you were repressed, _Angleterre_.”

“How _dare_ you imply such a thing about my character! Eglantine is my _granddaughter,_ you bloody pervert!”

“You know, he’s only doing it to get a reaction,” Canada said. “That’s the only reason he _ever_ does it.”

“Dude, there’s nobody here but us and we all know better,” Alfred said, eyeing his carefully-arranged table.

“You take that back!” England demanded.

“ _Non_.”

“You both sound like children!” Canada declared. “I don’t know how I ever lived with either of you!”

_“Now!”_

“Ah, how far they fall. Dear little _Angleterre_ can no longer make people listen to hi-”

Arthur punched him in the face, Alfred decided not to get involved, and Matthew finished editing the rest of the agendas.

* * *

 “Pasha! Pasha!”

Pavel glanced behind himself quickly and stopped, waiting for Zell Beilschmidt to catch up.

“I have _got_ to get _Babbo_ to stop buying me heels,” she muttered to herself, breathing heavily.

“Why not just buy your own shoes?” Pavel asked, eyeing the ever-further away Russian delegation.

“They’re gifts, and it keeps me from _having_ to buy my own shoes,” she told him, straightening up some. “Anyway, c’mon, I’ve got to introduce you to some people.”

“But-”

“You can catch up with Russia later,” Zell interrupted, grabbing his arm. “Come _on._ ”

She pulled him down a confusing network of hallways, heels clicking rapidly against the tile floor. Pavel quickly checked his bundle of documents to make sure he didn’t have anything vital with him.

Zell slowed and pushed a door open. Pavel caught a glance of the plaque mounted on the wall.

“ _‘Office of Nations’ Affairs?’_ ” he asked. “I’ve never-”

“It only took the General Assembly a _century_ to figure out their Nations needed some sort of organization,” Zell told him. “Preparing for diplomatic issues, organizing rooms, providing refreshments, fixing the things they break-”

“I thought that was _your_ job,” Pavel replied, pulling his arm out of her grasp.

“Yeah, well, they’ve given me a staff to do it now.”

“Wo-Wait. You got promoted!”

Zell’s smiled just a little.

“Yeah. Got a Directorship now. It’s not as fancy as you think it is.”

“Well, congratulations,” Pavel told her, taking a look at the room he’d been dragged into. It was more like a wide, chopped off hallway- there were offices surrounding the whole area, mostly empty, which were blocked off slightly with a large desk and a sort of waiting area of chairs surrounding a small table. Two men were seated at it.

“You remember Meirvaldis,” Zell said, gesturing to the elder man at the table as she got a seat for Pavel.

“Uh-”

The blond man, hair slightly wavy and just a bit too long, _did_ look familiar-

Pavel groped for his chair while he tried to place the other’s face, failing at being unobtrusive about it.

Meirvaldis sighed.

“Galante,” he supplied.

“Oh- _oh!_ ” Pavel said, feeling stupid. “Yeah. Hey.”

“Hey.”

Zell sat down and tapped her stack of papers on the table to straighten them.

“And that’s David Mayfield; our intern.”

The younger man held out his hand, and Pavel took it.  

“Pavel Laurinaitis,” he introduced himself. “Personal aide to the Russian Federation.”

David shook it firmly.

“Hello, Mr. Laurinaitis. Do you have any ideas on how to handle your father; he’s been very disruptive lately.”

“Um-” Pavel said, taken aback.

“David is very enthusiastic,” Zell said. “And very up-to-speed for being new. I just needed to bring you in here to tell you who to liaison with.”

“So you have a staff of _three_ to deal with everyone?” he asked. “That’s… really small.”

“The UN is just as tight-fisted as any government,” Meirvaldis told him. “We could have done worse. We’re lucky we even _got_ an intern.”

“I asked specifically once I heard about this department,” David said with a touch of pride.

“Good for you,” Pavel said uncertainly.

* * *

 Germany took his seat and decided that he’d let everyone socialize, argue, fight, and wreak havoc -however unsettling that was- for about another five minutes. Just over a century of having to be the voice of reason and unofficial chair of the meetings meant he’d learned to schedule in extra time at the beginning of each gathering to let everyone blow off steam.

He didn’t even bother to show up ‘on time’ anymore- not that anyone noticed. _They_ were the ones with the schedules that gave them a starting time some fifteen minutes earlier than it _really_ was.

Ludwig decided the schedule because no one else wanted to do it. He did a lot of things that no one else wanted to, and took good advantage of it.

He scooted his chair in a bit more and his knee bumped something. He felt under the table and pulled off a small box taped to its underside.

It looked like a ring box, and Ludwig fervently hoped that it wasn’t one of Feliciano’s romantic gestures.

Not that they were _unwanted,_ they were just- just- so incontinently _timed_ and _placed_ and overtly sweet and caring and those were _good_ things, they really _were,_ they just made his chest and stomach do uncomfortable things that he _really_ should have gotten used to by now and weren’t really all _that_ unpleasant in the first place-

Germany strictly told himself to stop blushing so noticeably and opened the box.

There was a little card in the top that read:

                _‘For Vati- 9:45_

He flipped it over. It was a business card.

_UN Office of Nations’ Affairs  
Maria Gisela Costa Beilschmidt, Director_

Ludwig smiled to himself. _Zell_ knew what he was doing.

He examined the lapel microphone still in the little box, figuring out how to adjust the volume and trying to see how it turned on.

Ghana leaned over discreetly from her seat next to him and made a little amused ‘hmn’ noise as she read the card.

“Taskmasters, both of you,” she told him with a little smile. “Tell her congratulations from me, will you?”

Germany returned the gesture with one of his own.

“I will. Thank you.”

He slipped the card into his pocket and realized that there was a minor incident occurring on his other side.

“There’s something wrong across the border,” Georgia hissed at Azerbaijan, who had taken Gambia’s seat for the moment. Armenia was sitting between them on the table.

“Imeda-” Azerbaijan said warningly.

“I know how trouble looks, Gálay!” he shot back. “Don’t you?”

She snorted at him.

“You’ve been saying something’s wrong ever since the South Ossetia War, and nothing ever _has_ been.”

Armenia stuck her foot between the two of them.

“You never know what Russia’s doing,” she pointed out.

“You’re just making it _worse,_ Ardzvi,” Azerbaijan told her, and from there the conversation degenerated into angry Russian.

Ludwig checked the time -9:44- and clipped the microphone on. He surveyed the pre-meeting damage, which wasn’t as bad as it could have been, and a little green light on the microphone’s battery pack lit up.

Ah, so it was remote controlled.

Ghana noticed the look on his face and covered her ears. Canada saw her and followed suit, not that anyone paid any attention.

Germany slammed his fist down on the table and roared, in his best field command voice:

_“ORDER!”_

Someone shrieked –it might have been Nepal- and everyone jumped as his greatly-amplified voice drowned out everyone else.

“I want one,” Canada said.

“Not fair!” Angola yelled.

“No more yelling,” Bahrain pleaded with him.

“This meeting is now in session and it will _not_ deviate from schedule!” Germany decreed, turning the volume down a bit. “Sit _down._ ”

There was a general shuffling as people found their seats, stole their chairs back, kicked other people out of their spots, and remembered that Canada’s place was actually occupied and that no one was allowed to use it as a coat rack or bag holder.

Ludwig waited until everyone was mostly in order to begin.

“Ecuador, you’re opening today,” he said, and sat back down as the meeting sputtered to life.

* * *

 Elke Bastian looked up from the information desk at the Stuttgart Political Commune when the bell over the door rang.

A woman walked in- a touch tall, brown hair pulled back in a bun, looking around curiously with her hands stuffed in the pockets of her leather biker jacket, partially hiding the formal button-down shirt and the top of her dress trousers.  Elke knew the look of a professional athlete- the body gave them away- but usually they didn’t turn up here, and not dressed like _that_.

She wasn’t football- Elke would know her face then, with how much money she knew the outfit must have cost.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Just looking,” the woman said, and started flipping through the brochures. “Anything I probably haven’t heard of? My sister’s into politics, but she’s out of the country.”

Something more obscure? With an accent like that, this woman was probably a Berliner.

“What’s your sister like?” Elke asked, thinking that a conveniently-absent sister was a flimsy excuse to hide a political interest. 

“Have the Turkish groups been doing anything new lately?”

“We’ve got this,” Elke told her, extracting a flyer from the mass covering the information desk.

The woman squinted at it a little, puzzled at the Turkish.

“I think you can keep that,” she said, and glanced around at the other flyers.

Then froze.

Elke sighed internally, and steeled herself for some careful explaining.

* * *

 

Ásdís knocked tentatively on the door Wales’s very nice refurbished Victorian house in Cardiff.

“It’s open!” Cassiel called.

She entered the house and looked around. A door to her left was open, and she walked in.

Cassiel was standing meditatively in front of the fireplace, gazing at the two swords mounted above the mantel.

“These are probably something like fifteen hundred years old,” he remarked. “It’s amazing that they’ve survived this long.”

Ásdís shrugged. A lot of the Nations had kept their old weapons. They made nice wall decorations- and it was always a good idea to have a good defense close at hand.

“Wales has been taking good care of them. It’s not like they were left out in a bog or something to rust.”

“I guess,” he replied. “You know, King Arthur was originally a Welsh hero? He was supposed to have fought the Saxon invaders, who merged with the Angles to become the Anglo-Saxons-”

“Don’t bring out the chart, don’t bring out the chart,” Øystein muttered, sitting unnoticed in a chair behind the other two.

“-and eventually the English, so Mr. Kirkland really has no business with that name, when you think about it. Though he should also be calling _Onkel_ Ludwig and France family- here, I’ll show you-”

“He brought out the chart!” Øystein groaned, throwing his head back. “Cass, put that damn thing away!”

“But I put a lot of work into this!” Cassiel protested, looking hurt. He was halfway through unfolding a large, thin piece of paper that he’d somehow managed to fit into his pocket. “I talked to everybody and consulted history books and archaeological papers and linguistic treatises and figured out how we’re really all cousins!”

“Every time you bring it out, there’s an argument,” Øystein said. “The world did _not_ need to know that Russia is really Sweden’s grandson, or that the Venetians aren’t natively Italian, and whatever else you figured out! The world dynamic is already messed up enough without you adding more trouble to it!”

“I’m not adding trouble. I’m providing knowledge!”

 “They’ve been willfully ignoring it for a _reason!_ There’s too much history in between all that now for it to matter! They’ve got other things to worry about and new families to deal with!”

“I was just trying to show that England is in no way related-”

“Where _is_ Mr. Cadogan, anyway?” Asdír interrupted.

“Oh, he’s out with Scotland,” Cassiel said. “England’s at the meeting, so he’s taking the opportunity to go bar-hopping in London. Wales is with him to make sure he doesn’t trash Mr. Kirkland’s house when he gets completely wasted. He should be gone all day.”

He gestured to the table behind the couch that was strewn with bits of pieces of the projects he usually kept hidden in a shed on his landlord’s grounds.

“So I figured we would take advantage of it.”

* * *

 England glanced over at America on his left and glared at the man’s ear.

“Pay attention!” he hissed.

“Dude, it’s just _Iraq._ I know what’s he’s talking about already. This is _way_ more important.”

Arthur snatched the piece of paper America was so intent on and looked it over.

“These are just your bloody poll results!”

“You _bet_ they’re bloody!”

Uruguay put in his defensive earbuds against Arthur’s indignant response. He knew from bitter experience that his seatmates would only get louder and louder.

“Closest race in history!” America said proudly. “The polls are showing a near five-way split! Amazing, right!”

“It’s bloody stupid, is what it is!”

“Aw, c’mon! It’s _exciting!_ Ever since the parties split up, people have actually paid _attention_ to the voting!”

“Only _you_ could be happy about political fragmentation!”

“Argument breeds democracy!”

The United Arab Emirates glared at both of them from England’s other side.

“Well, _you_ two are just breeding trouble, and if you don’t shut up I’m going to talk to OCOD about you,” he told them sharply.

“Dude, seriously, threatening our oil imports was old even _before_ the millennium.”

“It’s still effective. Where did all that talk of ‘green energy resources’ get you, huh?”

“Just shut up. He _tried,_ you git.”

“Felicidad, back me up here!” the Emirates called, as America frowned at England and complained that he didn’t need protecting.

Venezuela leaned back in her seat on the other side of Uruguay.

“You’re on your own for now, Taheer,” she replied. “Bring it up in committee if you’d like.”

“Hah! There, see! Ukraine, you saw that, right!”

“D-don’t drag me into this, please,” she begged, scooting away from the Emirates and nearly giving Uganda a faceful of her chest. “It was bad enough last time!”

“America, do you have something to say?” Germany asked ominously from further into the room.

“America and England are blathering idiots who have spent much too long arguing with each other,” the Emirates declared.

“My elections are freaking amazing this time around!”

“America is a bloody bastard who’s late on his debt payment!”

Alfred scowled at him.

“I take that back- England is a creepy old man who stalks the family he didn’t want to keep!”

Arthur stared at him in shock, ignoring France’s snide comment about his sexual preferences and Gabon’s heroic punch to his former colonizer’s jaw that sent him sprawling unconscious on the floor. He and Finland made friends across France’s chair as England gathered his wits about him again.

“H- How dare- It wasn’t- I _did-_ ”

America smiled impudently at him.

“You can’t have anything nice, can you?”

For a second, England’s vision clouded over and all that was going through his head was _I am going to_ strangle _that sodding bastard, by God I will how DARE HE_

But then he thought of Eglantine and Irene and how he wouldn’t ever have a real life with them, and how he’d had _something,_ at least, with America, and this was why he’d messed both up, so he stood and stormed out the room as quietly as he could.

The last thing he heard before the door slammed shut behind him was Germany asking:

“Will someone _please_ go get England?”

* * *

 “Mum-”

Irene Walker sighed.

“Lana, love, I _told_ you. You can’t talk about the fairies to anyone.”

“But Mum-”

She got out of her seat and knelt next to her daughter.

“It’s not normal, Lana. If you tell people-”

“Mum, Ai-”

“ _Eglantine._ People don’t like things that aren’t normal, and if they don’t think you’re normal, they aren’t going to want to be around you.”

Lana looked up at her with sorrowful eyes.

“You won’t let Ainsel in to play,” she whispered. “Please- if I don’t see her, she’s going to think that I don’t like her anymore!”

“Your father left because of the fairies, Lana,” Irene said. “I don’t want something like that to happen to you.”

She glanced at the clock on the wall.

“You have your lunch? Your books?”

“Yes, Mum.”

“Good. Mr. Chapman is taking you to school today and bringing you back, you remember?”

“Yes, Mum.”

“Good girl. Now, I’ve got something for you before you go.”

Lana’s eyes lit up.

“A present?”

“Yes, a present.”

Irene took her daughter’s wrist gently and slipped a bracelet out of her pocket. She undid the complicated clasp and shut it again on her daughter’s forearm.

Lana pulled her hand back and examined it- a four-leaf clover preserved in glass, mounted in stainless steel and connected to a braided red cord by some silver fastenings.

“Mum,” she said accusingly. “This-”

“It’s protection,” Irene said firmly. “You need it.”

“ _Mum,_ the fairies aren’t going to _hurt_ me!”

Irene just sighed and escorted her to the door.

“Don’t take that off, Lana,” she ordered. “Have fun today, okay?”

“Yes, Mum.”

Irene kissed her on the forehead and ushered her out the door and past the gate to the road, where Mr. Chapman was waiting with his car. She re-entered the house and locked the door.

Hands seized her forearms and breath ghosted across the back of her neck.

“Be bold, be bold,” a voice whispered in her ear.

* * *

Teodozja watched Roksana, asleep in the ancient cradle Poland had dragged out of the attic, for any signs of waking.

Finally, she stood and clipped a baby monitor onto the side of the cradle and brushed her fingertips over her infant daughter’s cheek.

Roksana never stirred, and Dosia crept down the stairs and hesitantly took the other set of keys hanging on the rack just inside the door.

 _Mr. P- Mr._ _Łukasiewicz said to get the house ready,_ she told herself. _But there’s not enough food for guests and I’m going to cook for them all, so-_

She just hated to leave Roksana alone like this, and wasn’t sure if she was allowed to leave the house unattended-

She fumbled with the keys and they fell to the floor. Dosia knelt down and picked them up by the keychain, which was one of the rectangular plastic sorts with the name and address card that slid in.

This set read _‘Teodozja Pakulski, 1569_ _Mickiewicz ul. Zatelefonować 22-992-11-13 jeśli nie’_

Dosia smiled falteringly, not sure how to feel.

_My own keys._

She grabbed her purse and stuffed the other end of the baby monitor in it before she could change her mind. Her hand hit something stiff and crinkly that she didn’t remember being there before.

She pulled out an envelope with _‘_ _♥ Emergency Shopping Fund!_ _♥’_ written on it in happy pink letters.

Teodozja blinked rapidly to fight back the tears she could feel forming, stuck the envelope back into her purse, and went to find food.

* * *

 Russia jerked his foot under his chair and tried to concentrate on what Iceland was saying about overfishing and environmental impact.

Something hit his leg again.                         

“Stop kicking me,” he muttered to Rwanda.

“I swear I’m not doing anything!” she answered quickly.

He was inclined to believe her, but there was still some insistent prodding around his ankle.

“Is there something you want to say to me, Cezar?” he asked Romania in his ‘I am not actually considering bashing your head in, I promise’ voice.

It never seemed to work, for some reason, but maybe _this_ time-

Romania gave him a look like he thought he was crazy.

“Why would I be trying to talk to _you?_ ”

Rwanda edged discreetly further away from Russia, causing San Marino, sitting on her other side, to consider the merits of imposing on Saudi Arabia’s personal space, and how badly pissed off Iraq was likely to get about that.

“Well, you keep kicking me under the table. You wanted my attention, now you have it, _da?_ ”

“I don’t _want_ your attention!” Romania protested.

Ivan turned his head to look curiously at Rwanda.

“But I do not think it is our friend Rwanda, since she has drifted all the way over there to see San Mari-”

A decent portion of the room dove for cover at Russia’s enraged roar.

“Dude, what the _hell!_ ” America exclaimed.

“That was very uncharacteristic,” China agreed, a little shaken.

“Vanya, are you all right!” Ukraine cried, jumping up.

“Something has smashed my foot!” he said angrily. “Comrade _Rumynija,_ I did not know that we had such a serious issue-”

“I didn’t do a damn _thing!_ ” Cezar shot back. “I’m minding my _own_ business-”

A dark streak bolted from underneath the tablecloth and dashed across the open space in the horseshoe table.

“Don’t you run to _me,_ Sealand!” Ireland yelled with a scowl. “I ain’t protecting you-”

The streak dived into the chair next to him.

“ _Ikh nite darfn dayn helfn_ ,” the strange boy retorted.

Israel looked in shock at the boy in her lap. Veneziano smiled distractedly at him and then waved at Germany to see if he’d stop _staring_ like that.

It was scaring him a little bit.

“The hell was _that,_ ” Ireland said. “German?”

“ _Jiddisch?_ ” Prussia said from his seat in the corner by the Vatican. Everyone turned to look at him.

He whistled, long and low.

“ _Damn._ I am fuckin’ im _pressed._ Your kids don’t _do_ assimilation, Rahel.”

She shot him a nasty look, but the boy ignored them and looked up at Israel with the world in his eyes.

“ _Groys Shvester vel helfn mir_ ,” he announced confidently, and hugged her, snuggling close.

Rahel hesitantly returned the gestured, looking like she didn’t really believe she was awake.

“Wha- who-?"

“Yevgeniy. New Zion.”

There was a general sharp intake of breath from around the room. Rahel closed her eyes slowly, and lowered her face against Yevgeniy’s hair.

“Hello, Zhenya. _Mine bisl bruder_.”

 _"Oblast,_ come back here,” Russia said coldly. “Now.”

Israel stiffened and tightened her hold on the ‘Jewish Autonomous Oblast’.

“I don’t trust you with him!” she spat.

“He is part of the Russian Federation-”

“He’s the only other Jewish state in the world and that makes him mine!” Israel screamed.

Ivan twitched.

And got smacked by his own portfolio.

* * *

Nia felt like she couldn’t breathe. Her blood had run cold, and automatic reaction to what had never, ever, not a single time she’d seen it or heard of it, been a good idea.

There was a flyer advertising a group called _‘Germans for National Pride’_.

She glanced up at the information counter woman, who had a carefully-schooled blankness about her expression.

Nia forced herself to swallow, but not to unclench her fists.

“Why is this here?” she demanded.

“Because it’s not a Nazi group,” the information woman said simply, a hint of sharpness to her voice. “They’re for countering that. The point is to take back the idea of German patriotism from the people who insist they’re embodying it while destroying it. There’s no reason we shouldn’t be proud of what the German people have managed to do today.”

* * *

 Zacarías wondered how best to approach Adán Salcedo Esparza, and finally stopped lingering around in front of Espín’s former office and just walked in.

Adán looked up.

“Oh, Zacarías,” he said.

He wasn’t quite sure how he was supposed to take that.

“Did your- _father_ send you?” _El Jefazo_ asked.

“No. I just wanted to ask you something.”

The leader of the LAE leaned back carefully in his chair and rested his hands in his lap.

“Ah. Well, go ahead.”

“Are you actually going to hold properly democratic elections?”

Adán frowned.

“Your father _did_ send you,” he accused.

“No, sir, I just wanted to know.”

 _El Jefazo_ drummed his fingers on the armrest before replying.

“It doesn’t appeal to me,” he said.

Zacarías shifted on his feet.

“Why?”

“I don’t trust them.”

Zacarías was confused.

“Who?”

“Them. The people.”

“But we fought f-”

“Yes, we fought for the people. But I don’t think that they’re very good at deciding things for themselves.”

Adán stood.

“You see, they thought the government they had before Castro and Espín was bad, so they supported Fidel when he had his revolution. Look how that turned out.”

He turned his attention out the window.

“That sort of thing happened all over South America, and I don’t want it happening here. If I let the people choose, they might decide wrongly. I can see quite a bit of Havana from here, and I don’t want it falling into the wrong hands.”

Zacarías moved tentatively to his side.

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Well, I think part of democracy is that you have to have some faith in the people who are going to have it. I mean, yeah, people make stupid mistakes, but they really want a democracy, right? And if they want it bad enough to overthrow a government, shouldn’t they get it and try it out? They’ll… work to make it work. Because they don’t want anything else.”

“They can work at it and they could still make terrible mistakes,” Adán replied. “And _then_ where would they all be? Back to Castro?”

“Maybe. But they’ll have tried, right?”

Adán sighed and turned to him.

“I don’t think you understand, Zacarías. I care about these people. I don’t want to free them only to see them fall again under another tyrant. If I don’t ever let a tyrant get a chance, then they’ll be safe.”

Zacarías gazed blankly at him while he did some thinking.

“But you had to have faith in them already, right? To fight for them like you did? And they… they chose you to fight for them, and you accepted. So- they proved they could make a good choice, right?”

“They made a good choice this time,” Adán said. “It’s not that the people can’t make a good choice, but there’s so much potential for them to make a bad one-”

“Look, sir, I don’t really want to argue with you or really understand what you’re trying to tell me,” Zacarías said. “All I really wanted to say was: do you want to be remembered as one of the people who fought for freedom only to lock everyone away again or one of ones who truly let the people do the speaking for the people?”

He spent a second studying Adán’s face and walked out.

* * *

 Øystein sighed and let Cassiel’s blueprints drop down on the table.

“So…?” the man prompted.

“Cass, it looks great,” he said. “Amazing. Brilliant. But you could never build it.”

“Oh, really?”

Ásdís flipped through the blueprints again.

“Too expensive?” she asked.

Øystein pulled out a sheet and arranged the parts on the table so that they formed a rough approximation of how the blueprint said they would fit together.

“This looks like it should work,” he said. “Everything’s lined up perfectly, the craftsmanship is great, the idea is- well, outstanding, but we knew that already. But you can’t make it out of steel!”

Ásdís opened her mouth for a second, looking confused, and then comprehension dawned.

“Iron. You make steel from iron.”

“And you can’t enchant iron!” Øystein exclaimed.

“Earth has a long history of magic weapons,” Cassiel pointed out. “Shields and spearheads and swords-”

“Steel!” Øystein continued. “Steel! Those were all _steel_ weapons, or bronze if they were really old. Even stone, flint or obsidian! But there is no power, human or not, that can enchant iron.”

Now Ásdís was confused again.

“But you just said you couldn’t make it out of steel.”

“Oh, a magic sword, _that’s_ fine. Simple spells- burst into flame, sing when drawn, make blinding light, never break, cut through anything. One spell, one sword. It takes a _ridiculous_ amount of power to fix the spell into the carbon in the steel and keep the iron from repelling it, but once you’ve got it, it _never_ comes out and _never_ wears off. The iron keeps it there.”

He gestured at the machine parts.

“But this- there’d be too much iron and not enough carbon for the sort of thing you want to do! You want to run magic through it continuously _–somehow-_ and there’ll be too much resistance for it to work!”

Cassiel shook his head sadly.

“You’ve got to stop thinking like this is the twenty-first century,” he said.

“But it _is_ the twenty-first century!” Ásdís reminded him.

“Okay, well, the first half of it, then,” Cassiel amended.

“It _is-”_

“Whatever. You get what I mean.”

_"No.”_

“We’re almost to two-thousand fifty!” Cassiel exclaimed. “It’s time to leave the sputtering, coughing remnants of the Industrial Revolution behind and expand our technological horizons!”

Ásdís and Øystein looked at him impassively.

“What? That’s kind of the whole point here.”

“Cass, what are you going to make these out of?” Øystein asked.

“How did you manage to make your equipment work if you couldn’t use steel?”

“Brass, it’s all brass. But you can’t _use_ brass for this Cass, it’s not strong enough-”

“Titanium,” Cassiel said abruptly. “We can use brass for the small models and low-performance versions, but mostly we’d have to use titanium. I’d _really_ like to work with titanium-carbon alloy when we have more money because carbon is the foundation of life and life makes magic, it practically _is_ magic and some of my tests have shown the carbon-magic combination to be incredibly effective and I’d _love_ to see how carbon nanotubes work with that-”

“Cassiel, do you have any _idea_ how _expensive_ titanium is?” Ásdís groaned. “One pound of pure titanium- I don’t want to even _think_ about it! And titanium _alloy?_ That’s for- for luxury sports car engines! Planes! _Space ships!_ ”

Cassiel smiled widely.

“Good thing I want to make those then, huh?”

* * *

Zell's cell phone rang midway through the conversation around the table. She answered it immediately.

"Mr. Williams-"

There wasn't any response- just shouting, in Russian, and English, and some other languages she didn't know.

"Mr. Williams?" she tried again, uneasy.

Still no response.

"Zell?" Pavel asked, not liking the look on her face.

She hung up the phone.

"Pavel- has something been going on with your uncle? There's... quite a bit of commotion happening in the meeting right now."

Pavel didn’t bother responding and stood to leave, Zell on his heels.

* * *

Teodozja walked out of the grocery store with a bag in each hand and trotted towards the bus stop.

She’d been terrified that she’d be in the middle of shopping and the baby monitor would go off, letting her hear Roksana’s cries for love and care when there was no one there to help her.

But it had all gone well, and now all that was left to do was get back to the house and start cooking-

“Dosia! Hey, _Teodozja!_ ”

She flinched.

“Dosia, hey,” Mieczysław said breathlessly as he slowed from the sudden run he’d burst into to reach her. “Haven’t seen you around lately.”

“I know,” she replied quietly.

The bus couldn’t come fast enough.

“We all missed you in school,” he continued. “And nobody saw you over the summer and now school’s started up again without you. Where’d you move to? Your parents didn’t say anything to anyone before they sold the house.”

 _They_ left? _Th-They left without even_ looking _for me? Without even telling someone where they were going so I could_ find _them again?_

Dosia fought the tears and tried to look okay.

“Did they really?”

“Yeah,” Mieczysław said, rubbing the back of his head absentmindedly.

She’d almost forgotten that he did that.

“I mean, it makes sense for them, I guess. They’re Catholic enough that they wouldn’t want to stick around with people they knew after you got your abortion. It kinda made explaining to _Mamusia_ why we weren’t together any more a lot easier. Hard to date someone when you don’t know where they went.”

And that- _that-_

Teodozja didn’t think she’d ever find words to describe exactly how she felt at that moment.

Or how relieved she was when the bus turned the corner and slowed to a noisy stop in front of her.

Dosia fumbled quickly with her bags, trying to maneuver the groceries so she could pull her bus card out of her purse. She grabbed the card but dislodged her keys in the process.

Mieczysław bent over and picked them up, sticking them back in her purse as she tried to get into the bus without dropping anything else.

“See you around,” he called as she swiped her card and the bus driver closed to doors.

As Teodozja found a secluded seat on the bus to sit and cry as quietly as she could, Mieczysław quickly wrote down the address and phone number from the keychain before he forgot it.

* * *

 Russia whirled around.

A girl with long, thick wavy blonde hair was standing on his chair, blue eyes cold and angry, clutching the portfolio tightly. She was tall for a new Nation- on the chair, she could almost look Russia in the eye.

“Aleksandra Ivanova Medvedeva,” she said. “ _Sakha Öröspübülükete.”_

Russia narrowed his eyes.

“ _Respublika Sakha_.”

“Yakutistan!” Turkey called. He waved.

Ivan spared a glare for him before turning back to Sakha.

“You will get off of my chair now, _da_?”

“ _Suoh_. _Nyet_ ; you do not own me.”

“Ah, you are mistaken, little Sasha,” Russia said, trying hard to keep his temper. “ _You_ are a part of _my_ Federation.”

“ _Urut_. No longer.”

“I have not let you leave, _Respublika Sakha_.”

“I don’t _need_ your permission, Russia. We’ve stopped listening to you and your government and your politicians. To _Moskva_. To your _lies_.”

_“They do not lie!”_

The silence in the room was condemning.

The Republic of Sakha drew herself up.

“You _lie._ You _always_ lie, and we won’t take it anymore. _We don’t want you._ ”  


“Oh,” Russia said, his voice cold and too even. “What _is_ it that you want, then?”

“Freedom," she said, eyes going hard. "From _you.”_  


“You _cannot-_ ”

“ _Jeje_ , I _can._ _I_ _will._ You can’t stop me.”

“And how will _you_ stop _me?_ ” Russia challenged, voice rising. “You have barely a million people! You are surrounded by the Federation; and we are many, _da_?”

“Khakassia will stand with me!” Sakha exclaimed. “And Tuva! We will cut you off from the Far East, and _then_ what?”

“And then I send my army-”

“What army? _What army,_ _Russia_? The one fighting in the Caucus? The one recapturing Karjala? Kyonig? Komi, Nenents, Murmansk?”

“I have many people to serve the army, many children who will fight-”

“Each other? You will have them fight each other?”

“It will not be anything new,” Ivan said bitterly.

“And what will you pay them with?” Sakha demanded. “Where will you get the money?”

She brandished the portfolio again.

“Where will the Russian Federation get the money- _Ivan?_ ”

“You do _not_ call m-”

“Where will you get the money? What will you cut? You _barely_ have an army as it is! It’s _old_ and falling apart and _broken-_ ”

“They will be fighting for their Motherland!”

 _“What will you pay them with!”_ Aleksandra screamed. “You _have no money!_ You _haven’t_ had any money for _years;_ you have been surviving on _credit_ and _loans_ and the _idea_ of money _and it shows!_ ”

“We will _find_ the money!” Ivan snarled. “We have _debt_ we can call-”

“ _Woah,_ dude, hold _up-_ ” America began.

“We can _tax!_ We can defer payment! But you _will_ stay- you and all the rest! I will _fight_ to keep you, and _keep_ fighting until there is nothing left!”

“ _They won’t fight!_ They won’t _want_ to die for you!”

“They _will!”_ Russia roared. _“We can make them!”_

The room was silent for less than a second before the world erupted into protest. No one heard the door open.

“You do not have to leave, Sakha. Stay, you and the others can stay and then no one will have to die-”

Chechnya grabbed Ivan’s hand and bit down hard.

His wordless scream of rage stopped most of the rest of the noise in the room as he turned on the young Nation in blind fury, ready to _make her stop_ -

Something very cold hit his face.

He froze and squeezed his eyes shut automatically to keep the liquid out. Ivan used the end of his scarf to wipe the water away from his face and opened his eyes again.

Zell was standing there, holding one of the now-mostly-empty pitchers of ice water that were left around the table for anyone who wanted some.

The room was quiet, waiting to see what would happen next.

“Are you going to hit someone, _gospodín_?” she asked quietly.

Ivan blinked and looked down at the hand Chechnya wasn’t attached to at the moment (funny, he couldn’t even feel it anymore) and then blinked again, in surprise.

_When did I make a fist?_

“Ah- _nyet_. I am planning on hurting no one today, _da_?”

“Good,” Zell replied, and put the pitcher back on the table. He let his hand relax and looked quizzically at the girl still attached to his other appendage.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Pavel muttered, trying to be inconspicuous. Everyone was staring. “ _Extremely_ sorry- I have no idea how they got here, I _swear._ I _know_ we left Noxc̈iyn at home and I’ve never seen the other one before-”

“Chechnya,” Russia corrected him absently. “That is okay, Pasha. They are troublesome little Nations, _da_?”

Pavel didn’t reply to that, and simply pinched Chechnya’s nose shut until she let go of Ivan’s hand, gasping for air.

Zell tapped him on the shoulder and handed him his portfolio back. Sakha had gotten off the chair, but was still lurking near it, glowering.

Ivan took his seat again and ignored her.

“Now,” Zell said. “We’re going to take the kids back to my office and keep them there until the meeting is over-”

“Is that part of your job?” Miervaldis asked.

“I’m _making_ it part of my job,” she replied curtly. “-so something can actually get done in here. Without violence would be nice. You can come pick them up afterwards. Miervaldis, you take…”

She looked at the Sakha Republic, trying to divine who she was.

“Aleksandra,” Sakha replied. “ _Sakha Öröspüb-_ ”

“You take Sakha back. Pavel, you’ve got Chechnya. Ms. Navin, could I have, ah- New Zion, please?”

Israel held him tighter.

“I’m going to give him back,” Zell said, smiling a little. “I promise.”

Rahel sighed.

“Go on, _bisl bruder_ ,” she said quietly, and put him down, giving him a little push towards Zell. Yevgeniy dashed over to her and then hesitated, uncertain. The woman took his hand and led him out, following Pavel and Miervaldis back to her office.

“Well, that was interesting,” Zambia said after the door had closed, trying to defuse the tension.

“I _knew_ there was something wrong!” Georgia exclaimed, standing and pointing accusingly at Armenia and Azerbaijan. “I _told_ you! And _you_ said I was never right!”

“Köningsburg!” Prussia exclaimed, to no one in particular.

 “Vanya, what was all that about?” Ukraine asked. “Are you okay?”

“Dude, I don’t want _my_ debt payments going to _your_ army!”

“What’s this about Karelia?” Finland wanted to know.

_“Köningsburg!”_

“We are returning to the meeting,” Germany said firmly. “We can discuss Russia’s issues _at a_ _later time._ Does anyone have something to add?”

Romano looked around, but no one seemed to have anything.

Mentally, he shrugged.

“Greece is dying,” he announced.

* * *

Heinrich picked his cousin and his sister up from the lobby of the theater when the last show let out.

“The only place that still had reservations this late was a little expensive,” he told them apologetically. “I can get anything you can’t.”

“I’ll be fine,” Nia retorted, with more snap than she usually had. Heinrich made a mental note to ask what had her riled later that evening.

“You did really well,” Nico told him, his Italian drawing a few second glances from others on the sidewalk as they headed for the restaurant.

“Thanks,” Heinrich said. “So, what did you need to talk about?”

“When we’ve got our table,” Nico insisted nervously.

Heinrich didn’t think this night was going to go very well.

They got to the restaurant, got seated, and had their drinks before Nico spoke again.

“I’ve got a girlfriend,” he said quickly.

Nia stared at her younger cousin.

“Okay?” she asked, waiting for the point.

“And I really want to marry her,” he continued. “A lot. She’s _amazing._ ”

“But,” Heinrich prompted.

“But _Padre_ would _destroy_ me if he knew.”

“That you had a girlfriend?” he asked. “Or that you wanted to marry her.”

“Both,” Nico admitted glumly. “Diana, she’s-”

He had some of his wine.

“-we’ve been talking about moving away from Naples together because she’s really serious about getting out since she’s from a Camorra family-”

 _“Nico!”_ Nia exclaimed indignantly.

 _“ItoldVascoandhe’sokaywithit!”_ Nico said frantically. “He said we could come to his place in Zaragoza if we needed somewhere and I just need to know who I can talk to before I think about going any further than this because _Padre_ ’s going to be so, _so_ pissed and probably _Zia_ Vespasiana too and I don’t want to get cut from the family _completely-_ ”

“Nobody’s cutting you out of the family,” Heinrich said firmly, remembering his own misgivings about that, once upon a time.

 _“You sure?”_ Nia muttered darkly into her glass.

Nico looked between them with trepidation, and Heinrich turned to his sister.

“You’re touchy,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

Her mouth thinned perceptibly.

“I was at Stuttgart’s political commune today,” she said.

“And?”

Nia reached into her jacket and pulled out a trifold pamphlet.

“ _This_ is what,” she said, handing it to him.

Heinrich took one look at it- _‘Germans for National Pride’_ \- and hastily shoved it into his own jacket.

 _“Nia!”_ he hissed, while Nico looked at them in confusion. “You can’t just pull that sort of thing _out-_ ”

“They _claim_ they’re not ‘that sort of thing’,” his sister told him. “I’m not sure I trust them. Do you think _Vati-_ ”

“I don’t know,” Heinrich said, thinking.

* * *

 Irene thrust her elbow back, knowing that she was at the right level to connect with her assailant’s gut, but ended up hitting the wall painfully.

“Really, now,” the man who had been holding her said from his new position- leaning easily against the doorframe of the kitchen entrance. “That was just unnecessary.”

“Get out of my house!” she snapped.

The man toyed with a bit of thread.

“No. It _hurts_ me Irene, it _really_ does. Witch balls on the porch? Horseshoe over the door? A _wrought iron fence?_ Hazel in the garden and garlic in the window planters? A decorative _fountain,_ for goodness’ sake! And don’t think I missed that little bowl of holy water right outside the door. Do your guests think you just bought those little glass gems in it for decoration or are they smart enough to spot that you’ve used _real_ amber and ruby?”

Irene didn’t reply and the man just smiled.

“Or maybe you don’t have any guests. It wouldn’t surprise me. If I didn’t like you so much I would be _deeply_ offended and leave.”

“Oh, _please,_ do.”

The man ignored her and ambled into the kitchen.

“Oh my oh my oh my- Irene, you _have_ been busy. Is this real brass?”

She entered the kitchen just in time to see him flick the faucet and listen to the metallic _ting_.

“I do believe it _is!_ ” the man exclaimed in evident delight. “And unless my eyes deceive me I do believe that I see a rowan tree in the back yard. How… _thorough_ of you, Irene. Even brought in some twigs for ‘wall decoration’. Added in some holly, I see.”

“How can you even stand to _be_ in here?” Irene demanded angrily. “How did you even get in the _gate?_ ”

“My dear, dear Irene,” the man said sadly, shaking his head. “You seem to be laboring under a _terrible_ misconception. Come, sit with me.”

He lounged in one of the kitchen table chairs.

Irene sat down stiffly across from him.

“I never invited you in,” she hissed.

“I’m not some fairy or vampire who needs permission, Irene,” the man replied, waving a hand languidly at her. “Come now.”

“I won’t be offering you any food,” Irene said abruptly. “I refuse hospitality to you.”

The man pouted.

“Oh, should I be looking out for a knife in the back, then?”

_“Like it would do anything to you!”_

He chuckled.

“Ah, that’s true. I must say Irene, this is the best-protected house I’ve seen in, oh, about a week. Since London. You _did_ do your research, didn’t you?”

“It wasn’t that hard.”

“It’s a shame, you know. All this cold iron and such everywhere. You’ve got a whole _troop_ of pixies flitting about in the road, and there’s a _very_ pathetic-looking unicorn watching you woefully from across the street.”

“Good.”

“Most people are content with synthetics and decorative flowers nowadays.”

“I’m different,” Irene snapped at him.

Now the man laughed.

“Why yes, yes you are, Irene Walker. Just floating along in your little protective charms and such. Not _quite_ so little though- it was _fiendishly_ difficult to get past them. Your craftsmanship is _exquisite._ ”

“I told you, they weren’t mine!”

“Oh, _come_ now. I know they weren’t dear Joseph’s-”

“Don’t you _dare_ speak of him, you lying conniving Incubus!” Irene yelled, half-standing.

“Ahhh… too bad Irene, wrong again. I’m no demon.”

“Oh _really?_ ”

The man sighed.

“So little trust. Tell me- how is my dear little girl doing?”

Now Irene really did get out of her chair.

“Eglantine is _not_ your ‘dear little girl’!”

The man’s smile got wider.

“Of course she is.”

Irene stormed over to the counter and yanked a drawer open. She spun back around and brandished a crucifix at the man.

“Out! Get out of my house!” she demanded.

The man just sighed.

“Oh, Irene. Poor, poor little Irene. So young. So misguided.”

“Go burn in hell!”

“Now, now-” the man said, holding his hands up conciliatorily. “I’ve never really understood you, Irene- walking around without a care behind protective spells not your own, your adoptive parents not magical in the least, nor your dear departed husband-”

“Eglantine was _never_ yours, _is_ not yours, and never _will_ be yours!”

The man stilled.

“Is that so?”

_“Yes!”_

He stood.

“I can see I’m not welcome here, then,” he said, producing a hat from somewhere and donning it. “Though _what_ I would give to find your true parentage. I haven’t had this much trouble since dear Lady Mary’s menfolk hacked me to pieces.”

“You were going to hack _her_ to bits,” Irene retorted, voice a bit shaky. “But you will never, _ever_ have Eglantine or I!”

“Oh, I can’t do a thing to _you,_ my dear sweet Irene,” the man purred, placing one fingertip under her chin. “There _is_ a limit to how much I can do with those protections of yours. They can be tricked but not trapped.”

Irene jerked her face away from his hand.

“And keep your witchcraft _out of my house,_ Mr. Fox,” she snarled.

“Oh, dear naïve Irene,” Mr. Fox said, sauntering out of the room. “It’s no _witchcraft,_ what I do. _‘A witch is a witch for all their days, but a sorcerer’s a sorcerer only when it pays’_.”

He turned the corner into the hall.

“And there is a very _significant_ difference there, Irene Walker. Good day to you.”

Irene dashed out of the room quickly, but Mr. Fox had already disappeared.

She spent the rest of the day painting over the words burned into the inside of her front door:

_‘Be bold, be bold, but not too bold’_

* * *

  _“A space ship,”_ Ásdís said, clearly trying to control her voice. “You want to build a _space ship._ ”

“Eventually,” Cassiel replied with a shrug. “I think if it’s planned right we could get it up to a third of the speed of light eventually. Ninety-nine million, nine-hundred and thirty-thousand, eight hundred and nineteen point three meters per second.”

“And _now_ you’re talking about the _speed of light._ ”

“Have you heard of ley lines? There are major ones that get put on those maps and things even though they never seem to line up properly between the maps and I don’t really think any of those people know what they’re doing. But they _do_ exist and there are a lot of smaller ones and just a general magical field and you get repulsion off that with properly-affected iron. I don’t know if they go into space but there’s got to be _something_ there keeping the universe together, so I bet there’s magic up there so the same idea-”

“Cassiel, are you talking about _hovercars_ here?”

“Kind of? I mean, mostly I was thinking about propulsion for planes and space ships without having to use a whole lot of jet fuel, sort of like mag-lev trains, but I guess it _could_ work for cars if we figured out how to miniaturize it-”

“Can we- let’s just focus on this machine, first,” Øystein interrupted. “How are you going to power this, Cass? Electricity isn’t going to cut it.”

“Oh!” Cassiel exclaimed. “Wait a second!”

He dug around in one of his pockets, came up empty, and tried the other, then looked at the table, lost.

“You’ve got a breast pocket in your shirt,” Ásdís told him dryly.

“Right.”

He reached in and fished out what Øystein thought was a silver-colored ring until Cassiel turned it slightly, catching light on the clear crystal within it.

“ _That’s_ going to power this machine?”

“ _Every_ machine,” Cassiel told them. He flicked the crystal inside the ring and it rang with a nice, clear note. “Rock crystal quartz surrounded with carbon and bonded with silver. Quartz amplifies magical energy, silver strengthens the connection between the physical and the magical, and the carbon is an _amazing_ magical conductor, like I said before.”

He pointed to the blueprints.

“It hooks up here and here and moves the magic along through this conduit…”

* * *

 Feliks pushed the door to his house open, ushered his guests into the living room, and then popped into the kitchen to check on Teodozja.

She wasn’t there, but he could smell how the dinner he hadn’t been expecting to be made already was turning out. It promised great things in his immediate future.

He went upstairs and found his permanent houseguest feeding Roksana.

“Y’know, you totally didn’t have to cook dinner,” Poland told her, leaning on the doorframe.

Dosia smiled at him- but something was a little off.

“I know, _Pan_ Łukasiewicz.”

He watched as Roksana decided she’d had enough and fidgeted. Dosia put her baby back in the cradle and pushed it slightly so it rocked a little.

“Dosia?” he asked softly. “What’s wrong?”

She blinked at him- too fast.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Dosia, you’re one of my people,” Poland told her with a slight smile. “I _know_ when something’s wrong.”

He sat down next to her on the bed.

“What happened?”

She opened her mouth, and then closed it again, before speaking.

“I- I- When I went to get groceries- Uhm, thank you for leaving the keys and the money- I was at the bus stop and- and _Mieczysław_ showed up.”

Feliks perked up.

“Really?”

“H-he said my parents _moved_ and nobody knows where they _went!_ ” she half-wailed, tears finally starting to come. “A-and he said that made it _easier_ _to explain_ why he broke up with me a-a-and _he thinks I got an abortion!_ ”

Dosia broke down completely.

“H-h-he th-thinks I killed my _baby!_ ” she sobbed. “H-he thinks I killed _Roksana!_ A-and he doesn’t _care!_ ”

Feliks leaned over and wrapped one arm around her shoulders, rocking her slightly.

 After a few minutes, Dosia managed to fight her tears down. She sniffed, and Poland tried to remember where the nearest tissue box was.

“I-I should go take the dinner before it burns,” she said quietly, and tried to stand up.

Feliks didn’t let go, and handed her a pocket handkerchief that he’d remembered he was still carrying around. She blew her nose and he took the cloth square back, leaving it carefully on the nightstand. He kissed Teodozja’s forehead.

“Leave dinner,” he told her. “I can totally manage it. You go downstairs with Roksana and, like, mingle. I’ll introduce you.”

She nodded and picked Roksana up again, cradling her against her chest, Feliks never moving far from her side. He escorted her down the stairs and into the living room, where she’d sat, wet and distraught, last month.

“Not everybody could like, make it,” Poland told her. “And some other people showed up, but that’s totally okay ‘cause there’s enough food for everybody-”

“Feliks,” a woman with long brown hair said, dropping her head over the back of the couch to look at them. “Who’s your friend there?”

“This is Teodozja. She’s staying with me ‘cause her parents were like, _totally_ uncool and kicked her out of the house and then moved without saying anything to like, _anyone._ ”

“Is that a baby?” a young-looking man asked.

“Totally. She’s Roksana.”

“Lay off, Cristoforo,” the woman muttered.

The man shot her a glare.

“They’re just _children,_  Erzsébet,” he said reprovingly, and stood from his seat on the couch, coming over.

“May I see?” he asked Dosia, holding his arms out.

She reminded herself that Poland would not leave her with anyone dangerous –he’d disappeared into the kitchen- even if they were strangers. She handed Roksana to him carefully, and he took her, cradling her gently.

Roksana squirmed and whimpered, unhappy about being in the arms of stranger. The man cooed to her quietly, and stroked her wispy hair lightly.

“Has she been baptized yet?” he asked.

Dosia felt a pang of guilt. She hadn’t been to church in _months-_ she’d been _in_ them, trying to find someplace warm to spend the night and maybe some food, but never for Mass-

“No, sir,” she said.

He looked at her briefly and she couldn’t fathom his expression. Sad? Disappointed?

The man turned his attention back to Roksana and raised his right hand, index and middle fingers together.

“A blessing for your child,” he said, and crossed her, murmuring something in a language she didn’t understand, but thought was probably Latin.

“Amen,” he finished, and fixed her with a stern look as he handed Roksana back to her. “Arrange her baptism as soon as possible. _No_ child should be without the grace of God.”

“Yes, Father,” she said dutifully.

The man smiled thinly.

“Not ‘Father’, Teodozja.”

Someone snorted, and said something sarcastic-sounding in a foreign language Dosia couldn’t put a name to. The man (the priest?) looked over at the brown-haired man collapsed on the third couch in the room, head half-off a blonde man’s lap.

He looked drunk.

The man who had blessed Roksana scowled and stalked over.

“Don’t mind them,” the woman said, making Dosia jump slightly. She hadn’t seen her get up. “Cristoforo is just going to give him some ranting lecture about ‘the sins of inebriation’ and Toris will try to argue with him. Eduard will probably just zone out- he’s only here to keep Toris in check. He’s been having a bit of a _drinking_ problem lately.”

Roksana gurgled at the new arrival, and the woman smiled at her, tickling her palm with one fingertip.

“I remember when _my_ son was this small,” she said wistfully.

“Where does he preach?” Dosia asked, dipping her head towards the man. “Česko? Slovakia? Germany?” 

The woman smiled crookedly.

“He’s no priest. Not officially.”

“But he just-”

“He’s the Holy See. He’s _special._ ”

Dosia’s mind shut off for a moment.

“Teodozja?” the woman asked.

“The Holy See,” she replied after a moment.

“Yep.”

“The Holy See. The _Vatican._ ”

“Uh-huh,” Hungary told her, trying not to smile quite so wide. She never got tired of people’s reactions to meeting what was, essentially, the Roman Catholic Church personified.

_“He just blessed my baby.”_

“He likes children. We all do. It’s nice to see the future of the world- and they’re just so _cute,_ aren’t they?”


	15. 2047: October

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been a really long time since I updated here, but I had _completely_ forgotten what a pain it is to put these chapters up on here. You want to know how long this chapter is? 32,116 words. It's 113 pages long in Word. I had to copy-past this entire thing in a section at a time. _That's_ a big reason why there hasn't been an update in over a year. Also, I was waiting until I finished writing Part 1 to update again; and since I'm almost done with Part 1 and do _not_ want to try and do all the chapters at once, there's going to be some more updates soon, when I have time and can deal with the frustration.
> 
> 'The World of 2047' has been completely redone, 'Introduction' has edits, and 'August' and 'September' have new sections added to reflect the major plot changes that happened since I first wrote those.

“Dudes, seriously, this is easy-”

“Uhm, America,” Belgium said. “This is a _European_ _Union_ meeting.”

“Pffsh,” the man replied, wedging his chair as far between Luxembourg and Malta as he could.

“I _knew_ England would bring America into this,” France muttered to himself, staring broodily at the spot where England should have been.

“It’s the economy, guys,” Alfred continued, ignoring France completely. “That’s _everybody’s_ business. Anyway, San Marino isn’t in the EU and no one’s bothering _him-_ ”

The Netherlands, who was busy bumming a light off San Marino to reaffirm their continuous mutual contempt for anti-nicotine laws, blew some smoke at his face, unfortunately catching Malta in the crossfire.

 _“He’s_ actually _European.”_

Germany glared at all of them on the behalf of the anti-nicotine laws and the integrity of the European continent.

“America, I am going to have to ask you to leave us to our business. We don’t try to tell you how to deal with your economy, so please try to do the same to u-”

 _“We’re here!”_ Veneziano declared, slamming the door open loudly. “What’s going on? Did we miss something? The Pope isn’t here yet right? _Right?_ It would be really _really_ bad if we missed him, we-”

“Dude. Germany. Ludwig. If you’re gonna try to have some ‘top secret EU meeting’, _don’t do it in our UN meeting room._ ”

“We are saving valuable time and effort,” he replied stiffly. “We have no other business at the moment, most of us are assembled, and we have a crisis on our hands. Belgium’s suggestion was perfectly reasonable and eminently accept-”

“Austria, Austria! Roderich we’ve got a surprise for you, looklooklooklook _look!_ ”

Most of the EU got smacked, shoved, and half-trampled as those members sitting between Italy Veneziano and Austria scrambled out of the way to avoid an Italian on a Mission.

Austria very quickly found himself looking cross-eyed at the young girl Veneziano shoved in his face.

 _“See?”_ he said excitedly. “I named her Vittoria!”

Ludwig sighed heavily.

“Feliciano, whose child is this?”

“Mine and Roderich’s!”

 _“What?”_ Roderich half-screeched.

“She’s Südtirol!” Feliciano exclaimed happily. “Well, I called her Alto Adige but she insisted on Südtirol because she’s very stubborn and anyway, I like German! You remember Südtirol, right Roderich? She’s what England and France and Russia promised me-”

 _“Us,”_ Romano said tensely.

“-and Lovino if we fought you in World War One-”

 _“YesI_ remember _that.”_

“-it’s taken a while for Südtirol to get its own Nation, I thought she might when we first got her since she’s the only German part of Italy but that makes her our daughter, _si_?”

“Uhm- Italy?” Belgium said, leaning over slightly to take his arm.

“ _Si_?”

“It’s _Germany_ you have children with.”

“… _si_?”

“Veneziano, he’s sitting _right there._ ”

“I know that! I saw him!”

“You just burst in and said you and Roderich had a child together.”

“But Charlotte, you know it’s not like _that-_ ”

“But you still _said-_ ”

She just stopped and sighed, and dragged him half-around so he could see Ludwig, who was strictly telling himself that this situation was _not_ what it sounded like, it was Italy being Italy again-

“Oh, _oh,_ Ludo, _mi scusi!_ ” Feliciano wailed, holding true to form and tackling him in his chair. “I’m really _really_ sorry please don’t make that face! I love you I love you I love you I love you and I’m _never_ going to stop- Südtirol just showed up and I haven’t cheated on you at all _ever,_ not with Roderich or Feliks or a nice lady or _anyone,_ I _promise-_ ”

“I-I know, Feliciano,” Ludwig replied, blushing dreadfully and trying to push his ‘husband’ off slightly. They were currently in Number Six (Feli sprawled open-legged on my lap, clinging to me and professing his love loudly) on his mental ‘List of Embarrassing Positions _Spatzi_ Puts Me In’. “I know you haven’t. It’s okay.”

 _Where did_ Poland _come into this?_

His lover smiled brightly in relief and hugged him tighter (moving them to Number Four- inappropriate public cuddling).

“ _Ti amo_ , _innamorato_ ,” Veneziano said, kissing his cheek.

“Hmn- I, uh, I do, too. Now please get off me.”

The other man just looked at him quizzically.

“ _Spatzi_ , everyone’s _staring_ ,” Ludwig mumbled.

_“Ooooooh!”_

Feliciano slipped off him and wedged himself between Ludwig and Hungary, who was occupying the spot on Germany’s left in the absence of Greece.

“I didn’t mind,” Erzsébet whispered to her old friend.

Feli giggled.

“I know,” he whispered back.

Ludwig pretended he hadn’t heard and that any continued blushing was from the lingering effects of his love’s presence.

“Oooh, Lovi, we’ve got a new niece!” Antonio exclaimed. “And she’s cute, just like you!”

“‘noth’r new Nation?” Sweden asked himself.

“Fuck, Antonio, not so damn _loud!_ ” Lovino said. “My head is fucking _killing_ me and it’s that lazy-ass Greek bastard’s fault- don’t make me fucking blame you too!”

“Hey!” the Czech Republic exclaimed. “You can’t get in here!”

“ _He’s_ here,” Turkey said, jerking his head in America’s direction. “If he’s here, I’m getting in while I can.”

“We don’t want either of you,” Bulgaria snapped.

“Why don’t you just let me in already and save yourselves some future headaches, huh?”

“Excuse me.”

Germany could feel one of those future headaches coming on already as the improvised EU meeting was once again interrupted.

“And who are you?” he sighed, mentally begging that the small boy wriggling into the circle-like formation of chairs between him and France wouldn’t cause trouble. At least he didn’t look like he’d be a handful-

The boy freed himself from the chairs and tumbled head over heels into the open space. He stood up quickly and dusted himself off.

“I- I’m Agion Oros-”

 _“Greece?”_ Romano asked incredulously, apparently forgetting his earlier complaints about noise levels. “How the fuck is there still any government there at _all?_ ”

“I’m a bunch of monastic communities- we’re good at fending for ourselves-”

“Athos! You’re off Mount Athos!” Turkey exclaimed.

“Um, yes, and we’ve been seeing a lot of people fleeing north, trying to escape Athens and Patras and-”

“Just get to the _point,_ Akakios,” another boy snapped, forcing his way between Latvia and Luxembourg.

“Oh- this is Thrace-”

“You’re not _Northern_ Thrace, are you?” Bulgaria asked suspiciously.

“He came with Athos, he’s Western Thrace,” Sadık said, as though it were obvious.

“No, I’m _Thrace,_ ” the boy said, standing up. He was a bit darker in the face than Agion Oros, who was clearly related to Greece, but the two new Nations looked very similar. “ _All_ of Thrace.”

“You can’t have Northern Thrace, that’s more than half my land!” Bulgaria exclaimed.  Belgium and Cyprus grabbed him before he could stand up.

“İstanbul is _mine!_ ” Turkey declared angrily, jumping out of his chair. “I won’t let you take it! Stay in Greece!”

Thrace smirked slightly.

“But where _else_ would I have my capital?”

_“İstanbul is my biggest city!”_

“Plovdiv is my _second_ -biggest city!” Bulgaria yelled, shaking off Belgium and Cyprus.

“You want to steal the prize of the Ottomans, kid?”

Now Thrace really did smirk.

“Bring it, **_Parcal-glava_**.”

“Keep your hands off my city, **_Hıristiyan_** ,” Turkey snarled, jabbing him in the chest.

 _“Hey!”_ Spain exclaimed.

“ _Oh_ , so _he_ gets to insult _me_ but _I_ can’t use a completely acceptable term-”

“Stop _fighting!_ ” Agion Oros pleaded, dashing into the middle of the argument. “ _Please,_ stop fighting!”

“Yes, be _good_ little boys and _grow up,_ ” a woman drawled.

Sadık whirled around.

“You-”

“Yes, _me,_ ” Crete said sharply. “Do me a favor and at least _act_ like you all didn’t forget I was still alive, will you? _You_ spent enough time _fighting_ over me, _Osmanlı_ _._ ”

“Hi, Aristomache!”

“You could at least _call_ sometime, _Venexia._ ”

Feliciano fidgeted and drooped.

“ _You_ brought them,” Bulgaria accused.

Crete crossed her arms and glared at everyone. There were two more children, girls this time, clinging to her skirt.

“W-We just wanted to know if the EU was going to send money,” Agion Oros said. “I can handle myself, and so can Kykladon-”

One of the girls waved timidly.

“-but Thrace and Macedonia-”

“How is this _my_ problem?” Macedonia wanted to know.

Agion Oros bit his lip.

“Um- you are…?”

“Macedeonia,” Macedonia said.

“Oh God not this again,” Albania muttered.

“ _I’m_ Macedonia!” the other girl exclaimed. “And he’s _bullying_ me!”

She pointed accusingly at Macedonia.

“Hey, I’m trying to help!”

“I don’t want your people on my land!”

“Dude, nobody gave you permission to invade Greece,” America said disapprovingly.

France sighed.

“America, _no one_ ever has permission to invade. That is why it is called an _invasion._ ”

“I didn’t _invade_ him!” Macedonia exclaimed. “Did you _not_ hear what I just said? I’m _helping!_ Providing _aid!_ ”

“With _soldiers!_ ” Macedonia said angrily.

“ _Soldiers_ are the only ones who won’t get _attacked!_ ”

“I still don’t want them!”

“What, you’d rather _starve?_ ”

“Macedonia!”

 _“What?”_ both of them demanded.

Germany did his best not to look too exasperated.

“Yugoslav Macedonia-”

“That’s _not_ in my name; I’m just the Republic of-”

“ _Yugoslav Macedonia,_ ” France echoed, pointing at him. “There are _two_ Macedonia’s here, _oui_? So, _you_ will be _Yugoslav_ Macedonia, justlike how you are in the UN _and_ the EU; and _mademoiselle_ will be _Greek_ Macedonia, all right?”

“When were you going to inform us of your actions towards Greece?” Germany asked.

“It’s not _your_ business who I decide to help-”

“Ah, _Yougoslave Macédoine_ , when it involves soldiers, it is _everyone’s_ business.”

“Oh, _well_ then,” Yugoslav Macedonia said sarcastically. “I guess _you_ were just going to find out when the _rest_ of you decided to _do_ something and actually _sent_ people to Greece to help.”

“But we did send people!” Veneziano exclaimed.

“I’ve got guys from Novo Selo down on the ground there,” America said.

“We’re working on mobilizing the Eurocorps, but all our bosses and parliaments have to agree first,” Belgium reminded him.

“I’ve had people supplying Rhodes since _July,_ ” Turkey said defensively. “And the consulate there’s been managing aid for the _entire_ Aegean.”

“Yes, because that doesn’t look at _all_ like you’re trying to steal the islands,” Bulgaria said.

“Hey, just ‘cause _I_ can’t stand the guy doesn’t mean I’m going to try and steal his land! Our governments have been getting along pretty well lately and _they’d_ let me in the EU!”

“You can’t be in the EU if Thrace gets his land,” Hungary pointed out, sounding entirely too cheerful about the possibility.

“Lisbeth, dear, please,” Austria pleaded. Südtirol had taken up residence in his lap with evident enjoyment, disrupting his air-piano routine whenever she noticed his fingers starting to move again. It was making him jumpy. “We are _not_ encouraging that sort of behavior.”

Turkey decided to switch tactics.

“Do you _see_ this?” he demanded of America. “They’re _discriminating_ against me! Because I’m _Muslim_ and not _‘European’_ enough!”

“Uh…” America looked like he’d been caught riffling through the CIA personnel files again.

“That’s not-” Germany tried to say.

“No one’s accusing _him_ of having ulterior motives!” Sadık said, pointing at Feliciano. “And he’s practically _occupying_ the Ionians!”

“It’s not _my_ fault that they’re so close and so poor!” he replied, smiling. “They make their money off tourist attractions, and no one wants to visit someplace where there’s no government!”

“They’ve also got some _great_ ports. Zante. Cephalonia. _Corfu._ ”

“Tur-” Germany tried again.

“Hey, you fucking _implying_ something about us, _stronzo_?” Romano demanded, standing.

“It’s just that I’m so _good_ with tourists!” Veneziano said, still smiling.

“I _know_ that smile, _Venexia_!” Crete exclaimed angrily. “That’s _La Serenìssima_ ’s smile! Don’t think you can fool _me!_ ”

“I _knew_ it!” Turkey said.

“If you two bastards keep acting like you still actually _have_ fucking empires I’m going steal Switzerland’s damn gun and _shoot_ you with it!”

“Speaking of which,” France said a little too quickly. He turned in his seat. “ _Suisse_! Come over and here join us! We’re having _such_ a good time!”

 _“I’m not in your EU and you can’t make us join!”_ Switzerland yelled back from across the room, grabbing Lichtenstein.

 _"Me?”_ Sadık asked, trying to hide his smile as he looked down at Romano. “ _You’re_ going to shoot _me?_ ”

“If you don’t fucking _lay off,_ yeah, I damn well _will._ ”

* * *

“ _I’m_ running the meeting because I’m _biggest._ ”

“I’m _oldest!_ ”

“Richest,” Kyonig muttered, sulking in her seat as the other new Nations watched Sakha and Noxc̈iyn argue over who should lead the meeting in Russia’s empty house.

“Why don’t we vote?” asked Kamchatka.

The rest of the group slowly agreed that a vote was a good idea, and Kamchatka counted the hands for Sakha and those for Noxc̈iyn.

Seventeen for Sakha, sixteen for Noxc̈iyn.

Noxc̈iyn grumbled about the outcome but sat down and let Sakha take over the meeting.

“So,” Aleksandra began. “We’re here today to make battle plans!”

“Do we _really_ have to fight?” Primorsky wanted to know.

“Of _course_ we have to fight,” Noxc̈iyn told him. “You didn’t hear _him._ He said he’d keep fighting until there was nothing left. We have to _destroy_ him if we want to be free!”

“But I don’t _want_ to destroy anyone!” Karbardino protested.

“And what do you think war is, then?” she demanded. “You live in the _Caucus._ You _know_ about war.”

“That doesn’t mean I _like_ it.”

“No one’s saying you _have_ to like it, Afanasy,” Sakha told him. “But Noxc̈iyn is right. We have to be prepared to fight for our lives.”

“That sounds scary,” Zabaykalsky said.

“There’s no room in this meeting for _cowards,_ ” Astrakhan declared, scowling at him. “Go ahead and _die._ Just don’t drag the rest of us down!”

“I-I am not a _coward!_ ” he replied, trying to sound angry. “It’s just I’ve never done this before!”

“ _None_ of us have ever done this before,” Sakha said. “But we’re not going to let that stop us! What’s everyone planning?”

“Klavdiya and I are fighting with you,” Karkassia said.

“Because you practically _made_ us,” Tuva muttered.

Aleksandra ignored that and looked around the table again.

“Kabarovsk, Amur- _you guys._ The Far East! What about you?”

The Russian Far East exchanged looks.

“We’re only Nations because you cut us off,” Sakhalin said eventually. “Why did you drag _us_ into this? You’re already a republic, but we’re just oblasts and krais-”

 _“And we were perfectly happy that way,”_ Zabaykalsky interrupted.

“That’s ridiculous,” Sakha retorted. “You wouldn’t be here if your people didn’t want it.”

Magadan looked doubtful about Zabaykalsky’s words.

“But we didn’t exist-”

“Yeah,” Amur said. “Which means we didn’t have to worry about this stuff. _He_ did.”

“I was a forced-labor camp. And my economy’s been declining-”

“ _Everyone’s_ economies are declining,” Amur sighed.

“ _Mine’s_ not,” Kyonig said smugly.

“You shut up. How are you going to get _him_ to let you go, anyway?”

“Well, unlike the _rest_ of you, _I’m_ not actually attached to Russia. He’d have to go through the Baltics to get to me- which means an international political _disaster._ _I’m_ practically my own country _already._ ”

“Well, hoo _ray_ for you,” the Komi Republic replied sarcastically. “But _some_ of us don’t have that sort of protection. _I’m_ out there by myself.”

“I’m right behind you,” Nenets reminded her.

“And you’re just as exposed as I am. Arkhangelsk is right next to us, you know.”

“We’re just on the other side of the White Sea,” Karjala said helpfully, holding little Murmansk in her lap carefully.

“Do _you_ have a Navy? Ports that don’t freeze up in the winter- because _we’re in Siberia,_ you know.”

“Well, no, but I’ll try-”

“Kyonig’s the only one with a port that never freezes,” Noxc̈iyn said, scowling at her. “He’s _not_ going to let you go, even if there _are_ other countries in the way. He needs you for his Navy.”

“The Baltics and Poland are in _NATO,_ ” Nadja said. “If _he_ invades them, practically the entire of rest of the _continent_ has to get involved. _Plus_ Canada and America-”

“That is exactly what you _don’t_ want happening, little girl.”

 

* * *

Heinrich, paper in hand, arrived early to the meeting. He went through the door and stayed firmly near it, just in case.

One of the people setting up stopped and came over.

“Hi!” she said cheerfully, extending a hand. “Haven’t seen you before.”

He took it tentatively.           

“First time,” Heinrich told her. “My sister was in here a week or two ago, and gave me one of your fliers.”

“Well, thanks for coming,” she said. “I’m Elke Bastian, co-founder. Fadri’s the other, he’s the one getting the microphone set up.”

“Marco,” Heinrich replied, giving her his lesser-used name.

“Marco,” Elke repeated, fixing it in her mind. “Great. Why don’t you come have a seat?”

He hesitated, and she noticed. She gave him a quick once-over, and her eyes came to the Star of David necklace that Heinrich had left visible under his jacket, if you were actually looking, he stiffened, waiting. He wasn’t going to _hide,_ but it was good to be at least a little careful.

Her eyes flicked up to his expression.

“We’re not-” Elke started to say, then switched what she was going to say. “Who was it?”

* * *

 Mieczysław sat on his bed and stared down at his phone.

He’d given her a month. She knew he’d missed her, but she hadn’t called.

Good thing he had her number.

_She should be home._

Mieczysław tapped the screen of his phone to wake it up and went to the call screen.

_Two-two-nine-nine-two-one-one-one-three._

The phone rang once, twice, and then someone picked up.

“Liet, I like, _know_ that I’m late; but I’m gonna rush down to Krzyś’s and ask for a lift in his jet ‘cause I don’t think he’s left yet-”

 _‘In his_ jet _’?_

“Er-”

The man –he was pretty sure it was a man, anyway, even though whoever-it-was was talking very strangely- paused.

“You’re not Liet.”

“Um- _no;_ I-”

“Eduard? Is Liet passed out drunk again? Or did he try to break into Natalia’s house? Tell me it’s not _both,_ he’s _totally_ got to stop doing that stuff ‘cause Ivan’s gonna get like, _majorly_ pissed at him for harassing his sister soon-”

“I’m not Eduard-” Mieczysław started to say, feeling deeply unsettled.

“I like, totally should’ve realized that. _Totally_ should have. You’re one of Kinga’s people right? ‘Cause you’ve reached Feliks Łukasiewicz-”

“Look, sorry, I think I have the wrong number,” Mieczysław quickly, trying to remember what numbers he could have messed up and _who the_ hell _did I call instead?_

“Uh- sorry for making you later than you were?”

“No, that’s like, _totally_ cool,” Feliks said as he started to hang up. “Hey, Dosia, there any like, stuff from breakfast left?”

The other end of line clicked and went dead, and all Mieczysław could think was:

 _Oh, I guess it_ was _the right number._

And then:

 _She’s moved_ in _with someone. Someone who’s probably crazy. And rich._

 _i’ve_ got _to remember what the address on that keychain was._

* * *

 Alfred had long since abandoned his seat as the impromptu-EU meeting dissolved into the classic case of Europe’s Unresolved Personal Issues; and Ludwig decided that it was a good idea to follow suit before his headache got any worse.

He slipped away to take up a new position by the door and sighed, letting his head fall back against the wall.

Südtirol, who had followed him over, plopped down on the floor and nestled against his leg.

Ludwig watched her idly for a moment. She looked a lot like Austria, really- her hair was long but it stuck out in front just like his, even if it curled a bit on the ends.

She looked up at him with big, golden-brown eyes, and he felt his willpower draining away.

“You want me to pick you up, don’t you?”

Südtirol just kept staring.

He sighed again and bent over.

“All right.”

Südtirol smiled as she was lifted up in the air, and resumed her cuddling under his chin.

“Just like your _padre,_ ” Ludwig murmured. “You’re just a little _kuschelbär_ , aren’t you?”

He could feel her smile against the skin of his neck.

“Yes you are, just a little _kuschelbär_ \- Vittoria? _Spatzi_ named you Vittoria, didn’t he?”

“ _Viktoria_ ,” Südtirol whispered, giggling like she was doing something forbidden. “ _Deutschland_.”

Ludwig smiled indulgently and squeezed her tightly, eliciting another round of giggles.

“You like the _Deutsch_ , don’t you, _Kuschelbär_?”

“Is he always like this now?” Crete asked.

Germany froze.

“He has his moments,” Lichtenstein replied, taking his hand.

“L-”

“Let’s go before Big _Brüder_ notices,” she said quietly, pulling him out of the room. Crete closed the door behind them, and Germany noticed that she’d rounded up all the new Nations but Thrace. Macedonia looked like she was still sulking about her counterpart.

“Lichtenstein? Where are we going?” he asked, slightly confused.

“Crete wants to apply to be a UN member, and I don’t know how-”

She paused and blushed a bit.

“Big _Brüder_ took care of it for me, like he always does, so I thought we should ask Gisela. And Crete brought all the little ones and I think Gisela made it her job to deal with them. She should know that they exist, anyway.”

“We _register_ with people now?” Crete asked as they walked down the hallways, sounding surprised and a bit shocked.

“Not officially,” Germany explained. “But she _is_ the Director of Nations’ Affairs, so it is polite to inform her when there are… more of us than expected.”

“And she gave herself the job,” Lichtenstein added. “At the beginning of this session.”

Crete still looked a surprised.

“Gave it to _herself._ Who _is_ this person?”

Lichtenstein looked at Germany.

“My daughter,” Ludwig said.

“You have a _daughter?_ ”

Now she just looked shocked.

“He has two daughters,” Lichtenstein said. “And a son. He’s Jewish.”

Crete did not look any less stunned.

“I’m _very_ out of touch, aren’t I?”

“That’s okay,” Lichtenstein replied. “I’ll help.”

“How long have you been _‘out of touch’_?” Ludwig asked, thinking. He didn’t remember ever meeting Crete before.

Crete thought about this as Lichtenstein led them down the hallway to the Office of Nations’ Affairs.

“The last Nation I saw other than the little ones was _you,_ ” she told him. “In Chania and then in Kondomari. Ierapetra, too.”

“Oh,” Germany said, suddenly feeling incredibly awkward. “I- I don’t remember seeing you.”

“Well, _I_ saw _you_.”

There was silence for a moment before he replied.

“I’m sorry about Kondomari. And the rest. Your people fought very well. They were the first.”

Crete smiled slightly at him. It was tinged with old bitterness.

“Yes, I’d gathered that when they were all shot. It’s all right. That was a while ago now.”

“Greece never came to see you?” Lichtenstein asked, opening the door to the Office.

Crete shrugged.

“Heracles spends most of his time in Athens, and Euphrosyne’s old places.”

“I- remember there being ruins…” Ludwig said uncertainly.

“ _Minoan_ ruins. Not Greek.”

“ _Hallo Herr Deutschland_ , _Frau Lichtenstein_ ,” Verena the Front Desk Secretary said. “Are you here to see the Director?”

“ _Nein_ , _Frau_ Arendonk,” Germany told her, detaching himself from the group slightly. “We were just showing-”

He looked uncertainly at Crete. She seemed to have picked up on the conventional form of address, though, and replied:

“ _Kyría Kriti_.”

“-and-”

“ _Kúrios Athos_ and _Kyría_ _Makedonía_.”

“-where this office is. Crete wants to apply to the UN, and she was hoping that you could be of assistance.”

Verena smiled at Crete.

“Of course I can help. Does anyone else want to apply?”

“Um- me?” Agion Oros said uncertainly, raising his hand.

 _“Me!”_ Greek Macedonia exclaimed. “Me, me, me, me, me, me, _me!_ ”

Südtirol stayed silent, seemingly happier to cuddle than declare sovereignty.

Verena leaned over so she could see the new Nations.

“Wow- little guys, huh?”

“How come _they_ get to be countries?”

There was a collective mental sigh from most of the present company.

“Peter,” Verena said patiently, with the air of someone who’d said this many times before. “You have to be recognized by other countries before you can apply to the UN.”

“But they talk to me!” Sealand said.

“Not by other _Nations;_ by other _countries._ That’s the first order of business, after writing your letter to the General Secretary indicating your interest and your ability and willingness to sustain foreign representation. Can you do that- _Kyría Kriti_?”

“You can use Crete, if you’d like. And I don’t see why not, though it might take a few months.”

“Thank you, Ms. Crete, I’ll have the Greek pronunciation down by the end of today; and a few months is completely okay. Have you or any of these others been recognized by a foreign, sovereign state?”

“We just showed up today, but I don’t believe it will be a problem for anyone except Greek Macedonia and Thrace-”

Germany and Lichtenstein migrated over to the sitting area behind the front desk, managing to stay clear of Sealand, who went off to pester David.

Ludwig set Südtirol down on the small couch between them, where she burrowed into his side.

“She’s very attached to you, isn’t she, Germany?” Lichtenstein asked with a smile.

“It would seem so. I don’t know why-”

“ _Vati_!” Zell exclaimed, leaning over the back of couch between them. “What are you doing down here? The Pope is about to arrive- who’s this?”

She and Südtirol looked at each other curiously.

“This is Südtirol- Alto Adige. Vittoria.”

Südtirol clambered upright and stood on her tip-toes to reach Zell’s ear.

“Viktoria,” she whispered loudly.

“Your father named her _Kuschelbär_ ,” Lichtenstein told her, trying to smile too widely.

" _Vati!”_ Zell said with amusement, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. “You gave her a nickname already?”

“She’s very clingy!”

“Like _Babbo_ ,” Zell remarked, tweaking Südtirol’s nose. “Are you and _Babbo_ going to take care of her?”

Ludwig regarded the new Nation.

“I don’t know. He did say that she was his and Roderich’s-”

“You’re _jealous,_ _Vati_ ,” his daughter said playfully. “ _You_ wanted _Babbo_ to have a little girl Nation with _you;_ not _Onkel_ Roderich.”

“I have you and your sister,” he retorted, kissing her cheek. “And Heinrich too.”

Zell chuckled a little and kissed him back.

“So, I have a Nation for a _Schwesterlein_ now,” she said. “Who would have thought? I claim bragging rights as the first human to manage this.”

“You’ll have to fight Sonnehilde for it,” Ludwig remarked.

“That’s okay. I’ll win.”

Her cell beeped a few times.

“And that’s Giovanna calling to tell me the Pope’s arrived. You should all go down now, _Vati_.”

“I will,” he said.

“Oh, and _Tante_ Liesl, I’m pretty sure Rémy and I can attend the wedding next month. _Tschau_.”

“That’s good, Gisela. _Ade_ to you as well.”

 Ludwig stood as Zell walked off and picked Südtirol up again.

“I bet you’re Catholic, aren’t you? Let’s go take you to see your first Pope.”

* * *

 “Sir?”

Russia tore his eyes away from the towering New York buildings-

_My people could use some of these. There is no reason for America to have all the fun!_

-and looked back at Pavel, sitting across from him in the back of the small armored limo.

“ _Da_?”

“Well, I have the full list of oblasts and such that have spawned new Nations. _Prezident_ Pajari and you are having a meeting after the Pope’s speech, remember? To talk about the situation?”

“You mean he will tell me things and I will be forced to agree with them,” Ivan said sourly, staring out the window again. They were almost to the UN Building.

“I think he’s a better person than that, Sir. He _is_ in the RPR.”

Russia snorted a little bit.

“ _‘The Russian Reform Party’_. I will believe it when people do not watch me like I am three seconds away from beating their children to death with the nearest blunt object.”

“There’s a first time for everything, Sir. _Prezident_ Pajari and his people might be the ones who actually make you a country people want to be friends with because they like you, not because of political expediency.”

“They are always saying these things, _da_? And it never works.”

Pavel frowned at him slightly.

“ _Djádja_ Vanya, the day you give up on your political parties is the day _those_ sorts of people win.”

That managed to make Ivan smile a bit.

“My little Pasha believes in me so. You are the only one.”

“That’s not true, _Djádja_ Vanya. _Titka_ Katya hasn’t given up on you. Or _Cjotka_ Tasha. And your people-”

“They are _leaving_ me, Pasha. Leaving me for _them._ ”

He gestured at the list Pavel was holding, half-pulled out of his portfolio.

“You have eighty-two oblasts, krais, republics, and other things,” Pavel replied stubbornly. “We know of thirty-one _possible_ Nations; and most of them aren’t particularly populous. You aren’t being abandoned.”

“People do not have to make a new country,” Russia said. “They do not have to move. It is in their _heads_ that they abandon you.”

The limo pulled around the UN complex and down the drive on the edge of the plaza in front of the Assembly building. Ivan clambered out and walked over to the ballistic-glass-enclosed security station in front of the dignitary/employee entrance, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his diplomatic ID.

The UN Peacekeeper volunteer sitting behind the desk accepted the simple leather ID wallet and flipped it open, noting the twin UN seal and Russian coat of arms stamped in gold on the upper flap before glancing momentarily at the ID card inserted in the lower flap.

She ran the wallet over a scanner perfunctorily and waited until the computer beeped at her.

“Welcome back, _Gospodín Rossiya_.”

“ _Spasibo_ , _Gospozhá_ ,” he replied politely while the woman did the same check with Pavel’s ID, identical in every way except for the lack of the UN seal.

The doors unlocked automatically for them with a click and Pavel picked up his pace slightly to keep up with Russia’s longer stride.

“Anyway, Sir, about your meeting-” he began as they headed for the General Assembly Room.

“Just give me the list, _da_? I will look it over before the speech and then tell Luka what he does not want to hear, and he can ignore everything I say, and that way no one will be happy.”

* * *

 Irene checked the clock and left her breakfast on the table momentarily.

“Lana?” she called, climbing the stairs of her house. “Lana, love, it’s time to get up.”

She opened the door to her daughter’s bedroom and found no one inside.

“Lana?” she called again.

Irene went down the hallway and checked the bathroom.

Still no one.

“Lana? _Eglantine!_ ”

She went back to her daughter’s room and looked in the closet for good measure.

It was, of course, completely devoid of young girls playing hide-and-seek from their mothers.

Irene walked over to the closest window, determinedly _not_ panicking. Lana hadn’t gone out to the side garden, and she knew her daughter wasn’t in the back yard- she would have had to go through the kitchen to do that.

She looked out the other window, next to the bed, and found that the front yard was just as empty as everywhere else.

Irene spun, ready to run down the stairs and-

-there was something on Eglantine’s bed.

She picked up the note and read it over.

_‘Be bold, be bold, but not too bold  
Lest that your heart’s blood should run cold_

_Was_ always _mine,_ is _mine, and always_ will _be mine, dear sweet Irene.’_

* * *

 Rozete Laurinaitis, formerly Garrison, newly-divorced mother, picked up her mail from the small locked boxes in the apartment building’s lobby and looked through them during her minute in the elevator.

_Junk, junk, junk, bill, magazine, bill, lawyer’s statement-_

The elevator pinged to a halt and the doors opened silently. Roz ignored the mail for a moment and walked down the hallway to her apartment, unlocking the door and then using her keycard.

The electronic portion of the lock beeped at her and she pushed the door open with her foot.

“Stasis!” she called over the classical radio station.

Her just-barely-teenaged son turned the radio down a bit and trooped out of the tiny living room area to take one of the grocery bags.

“I can’t find my mandolin,” he said, annoyed.

“Did you check the closet?”

“ _Yes,_ Mom,” he said, putting the cans in one of the cabinets above the kitchen counter. “But it’s _never_ in the closet.”

“Well, that’s where it’s _supposed_ to be, Stas. If you’d put it _away-_ ”

Someone rang the doorbell.

Stasis dropped the grocery bag and ducked into the hallway to answer it. He came back almost immediately.

“It’s _Senelis_ ,” he muttered, and retreated to the hall to check the closet again.

Roz’s jaw clenched and she took a deep breath through her nose.

She smelled alcohol.

 _“Tėvas!”_ she exclaimed angrily, turning around.

Lithuania sat slumped at her kitchen table, a suspicious-looking bottle sitting in front of him.

“I _told_ you so,” he said.

“I won’t accept alcohol in my home!” she snapped, and grabbed the bottle.

Lithuania’s hand shot out and grabbed it as well.

“I _told_ you you were too young to get married.”

“And _I’m_ telling you you can’t drink while you’re here!” Roz said, tugging on the bottle. It remained firmly in her father’s inhumanly strong grasp.

“I’ve seen it happen too many times, Roz,” Toris continued. “You love someone and it just doesn’t work.”

 He pulled on the bottle and Roz’s grasp broke. The insides of her knuckles scrapped uncomfortably against the lip.

“It’s not your fault,” he told her.

He took a drink.

“‘Cept when it is. Did you do something?”

“Don’t you have somewhere to _be?_ ” Roz asked pointedly. “Or did they refuse to let you in the UN building after that stunt last month?”

Her father froze.

“You heard about that.”

“ _Everyone_ heard about that, _Tėvas_ ,” she said, putting the rest of the groceries away with more force than necessary.

Back in the living room, the radio was turned up.

“You Nations have your gossip lines, and we have ours. What were you _thinking?_ Breaking into _Djádja_ Vanya’s _house-_ ”

_“He’s no family!”_

Roz glared at him.

“You married his _sister._ He’s family. You’re lucky that Pavel and _Titka_ Katya were there to cover for you; and that you’ve all got that Understanding about the difference between Nation business and country business! If nobody had been there and the _milícija_ came or if _Djádja_ Vanya had a meeting going on at his house the Russian government would have _no choice_ but to break off diplomatic relations with you! The world situation is getting destabilized _enough_ already without you bringing your personal issues into it!”

“I’m a _Nation!_ ” Lithuania exclaimed angrily. “My personal issues _are_ the world’s business!”

Roz glared at him, mouth set tight. In the living room, Stasis’s mandolin matched the one playing on the radio.

“You really _are_ a drunkard lately, aren’t you?” she asked. “It’s gotten to your head, _Tėvas_. You _know_ that’s not true. Your _country’s_ business is the world’s business- your _personal_ issues are everyone _else’s_ problem.”

“They should be paying more attention!” Toris said savagely. “He’s killing his sister and none of them _care! Everyone_ cared during the Iron Curtain, and now that he’s let them see what’s going on, they can’t be bothered to look!”

“It’s not like that, _Tėvas_.”

“It’s _exactly_ like that,” her father said, jabbing the bottle at her. “He’s a devious, heartless person, and if you lethim get to you you’ll end up like _Pavel._ ”

Roz grabbed the edge of the counter as tightly as she could.

“In case you hadn’t _noticed,_ _Pavel’s_ the one who’s better off here! _He_ can _afford_ his home!”

 The mandolin in the living room stopped abruptly.

 _“See?”_ Toris asked insistently. “That’s what happens when you let someone trick you. You end up _relying_ on them to be there and then they _finish_ with you and move on to more interesting things and you’re left all alone-”

“David didn’t leave _me!_ ” Roz snapped, whirling around. “I _let_ him go! _He_ wasn’t happy and _I_ wasn’t particularly happy so we split before it _could_ go bad, like it did for you and _Maci_!”

Lithuania’s bottle hit the table.

_“She loves me!”_

“ _She_ just wanted children; a family that no one could take from her!” his daughter yelled at him. “ _You_ wanted her to love you and she _never has!_ Just let her _go_ already, _Tėvas_!”

Lithuania stood up.

“She’s _dying!_ He won’t let her talk to me- he doesn’t _want_ her to be saved-”

“ _Maci doesn’t love you,_ _Tėvas_! _Djádja_ Vanya isn’t doing _anything_ to her; she just _doesn’t want to talk to you!_ ”

“He’s _killing_ her!”

“The _Union State_ is killing her! She’s made her peace with it, she’s _ready_ to die, and she wants to do it with her family around her-”

“Tasha _is_ my family!”

They were yelling in each other’s faces now, Roz with her back to the counter.

“Well, _she_ doesn’t consider you family; and with the person you’ve turned into lately I’m starting to think that’s a good idea!” 

Lithuania’s eyes went wide.

“Y-”

“You’re a pathetic wreck lately, _Tėvas_! A pathetic, _paranoid_ wreck who can’t see that just because _you_ hate _Djádja_ Vanya and love _Maci_ doesn’t mean _they_ feel that way about you-”

“Of _course_ Tasha loves me!” he said, grabbing her just under the shoulders. “Don’t you _see,_ Roz, _he’s_ just convinced her that she loves _him_ somehow! She’s not thinking clearly and hasn’t been for a long time, but I can _fix_ that-”

“ _Listen_ to yourself, _Tėvas_!” his daughter shouted, trying to push his hands off. “You’re delusional! _Djádja_ Vanya is _no threat_ to _you,_ or to _Maci,_ or _Titka_ Katya, or Pavel or _anyone!_  Your jealousy is making _you_ not think clearly! _Maci_ still talks to _me- she’s_ the one who told me that she doesn’t want you around, and about the _break-in_ and the _drinking-_ and if _this_ is the person you’re going to be now, I don’t _want_ to call you my father!”

Toris’s mouth moved silently. His grip on her arms tightened.

“You- you’re with _him,_ ” he said, sounding broken.

“ _Tėvas_ ,” Roz told him. “There’s only one ‘side’ on this ‘war’ of yours, and it’s _you._ ”

For a few heartbeats, nothing happened.

Then, something switched –on or off, Roz couldn’t tell- behind her father’s eyes.

 _“You’re with **him!** ” _he roared, face contorting in rage. He shook her to emphasize the last word, and the back of Roz’s head banged into the cabinets.

 _“ **Tėvas, atleiskite!** ”_ she shrieked, trying to push him off. “ ** _Atleiskite mane!_** ”

_“You’re with **him,** that’s why he let you talk to her! To my **Tasha!** You’ve **left** me for him, **just like Pavel!** ”_

“ _Tėvas, you’re **hurting** me!”_ she sobbed, shoving at his chest. _“You’re too strong! **Let go!** ”_

_“ **Traitor!** ”_

_“ **TIRANA!** ”_ Roz screamed, and managed to hit him hard on the side of the neck.

Lithuania jerked away from his daughter defensively. She pressed herself closer to the counter and groped around for something, _anything-_

“Get out,” she managed to say, hoarsely, tears streaming down her face. “G-g-get _out_ of my apartment.”

Toris clutched the spot where Roz’s fist had hit him and rolled his neck, trying to work some of the soreness out.

When he started to walk for the door, Roz stumbled after him, ignoring the bloody area on the cabinets. She shut the door behind her father and locked it with shaking hands before collapsing against the synthetic wood, sliding down to the floor.

Stasis appeared a few minutes later, holding the handheld phone.

“Uh-h-h-hm, M-Mom?” he asked, voice shaky and eyes wide with terror that hadn’t managed to pass yet. “Ar-Are you going to- to call the police?”

Roz sobbed and pulled her son down onto the floor with her, holding him as tightly as she could. Stasis threw his arms around her and buried his face in her chest.

She took the phone from him and sent it skittering across the floor.

“People like themdon’t _answer_ to the law.”

* * *

Grażyna glanced up from her after-breakfast coffee as her son hurtled down the stairs and snatched his coat.

“Where’s the fire, Miesko?” she called.

“I saw Dosia last month at the store and I told her how much everybody’d missed her but she never called so I just called her number-”

He stopped talking for a moment to deal with his coat buttons.

“-and some _weird_ guy answered. I don’t think she’s living with her parents and if she is then this guy was staying the night; but the address was in Wilanów and that’s _way_ too fancy for her family-”

“She’s not living with her family?” Grażyna asked incredulously. “But-”

“ _Mamusia_ , I’ve _got_ to get over there- I think Dosia’s in trouble. She seemed pretty out of it at the store and left really quick, and I didn’t really notice it until now because the guy who answered the phone thought I was somebody he knew who gets drunk _regularly_ and _breaks into people’s houses_ to harass their sisters.”

Grażyna stood.

“Who _is_ this person?”

“Some Łukasiewicz guy-”

The chilling silence made him pause and look up.

“ _Mamusia_?”

“Wilanów, you said?”

“Yeah- _Mamusia_ -”

“Does this- _person_ live onMickiewicz Street?”

“Do you know this-”

“ _Feliks_ Łukasiewicz?”

“ _Mamusia_ , how do you _know_ this guy?”

Grażyna abandoned her coffee and snatched her purse.

“Get in the car.”

“But we’re only in Urszynów-”

“Mieczysław, _get in the car._ You are _not_ going to this man’s house by yourself.”

“On the phone he said he was late,” Mieczysław said, but followed his mother out to the car anyway. “He’s probably already left by now and I just need to go talk to Dosia-”

Grażyna started the car forcefully and shifted the car into reverse harder than necessary. Mieczysław noticed.

“ _Mamusia_ \- uh, he lives at fifte-”

_“I know where he lives.”_

* * *

 “Who was what?” Heinrich asked suspiciously.

“For me, it was my brother,” Elke told him. “He got his name changed and started hormones a couple of months before he graduated college. The local skinheads got to him, and he died. I was two years behind him and they left his body in the dumpster of my apartment building, because we weren’t German to their standards but were loud and proud about being German anyway.”

“It was my sister,” Heinrich admitted, after a moment of silence. “My eldest one, not the one who came in here. She’s ethnically Turkish, our parents adopted her, and she was in the city with a friend and didn’t realize there was a rally. Some of them pulled them into the back of a store and tried to beat them to death. But they got out okay.”

She motioned for him to come further in, and this time, he did.

“Are you adopted too?” she asked.

“What?”

“Marco’s not really German.”

Heinrich was going to have to remember he’d given that name.

“My father’s Italian,” he told her.

Elke grinned at him.

“Brazilian on my mother’s,” she said. “If you’ve got any questions, I’m good for answers and so’s Fadri.”

* * *

 Cristoforo looked at the young Nation seated outside the door of the Nations’ meeting room, puzzled.

_“Reardon?”_

North Ireland lifted his face from his knees and smiled at him.

“Oh- hi, Mr. Pietri!”

“Reardon, why are you here?” the Vatican asked. “Have you ever even _been_ here before?”

The boy’s face scrunched up.

“Um- no, I haven’t. Dad told me he had things to do so I had to come represent Great Britain because _‘Wales wouldn’t even if I cursed him five ways to Friday and dug up his garden’_ , and he can’t ask _Eme_ Kenneth ‘cause he isn’t even _in_ the Commonwealth anymore. And then when he though I wasn’t listening he told _Ewethyr_ Tristan that he thinks I should spend more time with _Dadai_. But I think he _really_ meant to tell us that he’s still kind-of attached to the Church despite the whole Anglican thing and doesn’t trust himself not to fight with France the whole time. And that other stuff too. But mostly that.”

“Well, that’s very considerate of him,” Cristoforo replied, slightly impressed by North Ireland’s assessment of the situation. “But why are you sitting out here?”

“Oh- well, I thought it might be safer out here,” Reardon said, hugging his knees tighter. “‘Cause Ms. Zeghers suggested having an emergency EU meeting about everyone’s economies, but Cousin Alfred and Mr. Adnan tried to get involved, and bunch of people started yelling, and then some new people showed up but I don’t think they were Russia’s this time, and then there was a lot _more_ yelling, and then Mr. Deutschland and Ms. Zürcher left with some of the new people- and Dad’s told me _things_ about his meetings, and if _Mr. Deutschland_ got up and left, I don’t think I want to go in there.”

The Vatican sighed.

“You’re probably right, Reardon, but I have to anyway.”

North Ireland glanced around furtively, and then looked back up at him.

“Um- I can come in with you, if you want. For support. Or something.”

Cristoforo looked at him curiously for a moment, and then smiled, amused. He held his hand out and Reardon scrambled upright, clutching it as Cristoforo opened the door.

It was, somewhat predictably, a situation that had seen better times.

 _“Tacite!”_ he called over the commotion. “ _Omnis vos_ ; _tacite_!”

It was useful, yelling in Latin. Enough Nations either knew Latin first-hand or knew a Romance language well enough to understand him and obey- plus, it was an instant identifier. No one else spoke in it anymore.

 _“Reardon?”_ Ireland asked, astonished enough to let go of Portugal.

“England didn’t say he was bringing you,” Scotland said suspiciously from his position atop Croatia.

“Dad didn’t bring me, _Eme_ , he _sent_ me.”

“Awww, England didn’t come?” America pouted. “I was gonna talk to him about my election polls!”

“Oh, spare us the torture,” Norway said.

“Yes, we’ve all had _quite_ enough of that,” Luxembourg agreed.

“What have you warmongering anti-isolationists done with my _sister?_ ” Switzerland demanded, enraged.

“Wherever _chérie_ Liesl is, _Suisse_ , I am sure-”

“Don’t speak about my sister that way, you promiscuous deviant!” Switzerland exclaimed, rounding on his neighbor. “I _know-_ ”

“Sebastian, _please!_ ” Cristoforo said.

Switzerland’s eyes flicked over to the Vatican for a moment, and he glared fiercely at France, but stopped advancing towards him.

“ _Gratias_ , Sebastian,” he thanked him. “Now, His Holiness will be ready to being his speech in a few moments. _There will be **no**_ untoward commentary, catcalls, insults, expletives, obscenities, slurs, slights, lewdness, vulgarity, crassness, horseplay, roughhousing, quarreling, arguing, brawling, displays of public affection, threatening, intimidation, _or_ terrorization- from _any_ of you.”

“What do you think we are?” Slovenia asked testily. “Children?”

 _“There will be **no** groping,”_ the Vatican continued, looking specifically at France. “ _Especially_ between people of the same gender.”

_“Fratellino!”_

“I _don’t_ want to hear it, Feliciano! I don’t _like_ seeing what most of you enjoy doing, but I don’t interfere with it or complain! Live how you like; pass whatever laws about it that you wish; but while the _Pope_ is here, I would _greatly appreciate it_ if _all_ of you would respect the views of the Catholic Church.”

“Cristó _baaaaaaaaal,_ ” Spain pleaded.

“You have _no fucking shame,_ do you?” Lovino demanded. “It’s the _Pope!_ That means you keep your fucking hands to _yourself!_ ”

“Can I at least tell you how cute you’re being when you get all focused on what he’s saying?”

“My _fratellino_ said ‘no displays of public affection’, bastard!”

“But Lovi, you _like_ it when I compliment you! And you _really_ like my hands when we-”

 _“Shut up!”_ Lovino screeched.“ _Right now!”_

“This is _exactly_ what I was talking about,” Cristoforo said.

“‘s not fair,” Berwald said.

“But it _is_ the Pope,” Feliciano said, looking thoughtful. “I guess it _would_ be really uncomfortable for everyone if I tried to cuddle with Ludwig. Even if he probably wouldn’t even let me hold his hand.”

He sighed at this depressing realization.

“Even if it _is_ kind of unawesome, I’m with Kit on this,” Gilbert announced. “Keep it in your pants.”

Austria snorted.

“ _Such a suck-up_ ,” he muttered.

“Hey! That’s _not_ what’s going on here!”

“Leave him alone, Gilbert,” Malta said. “He’s not worth it.”

She looked around at everyone else.

“And I’m standing with Prussia- respect the Church!”

 “ _Sisite;_ just _stop!_ ” Cristoforo said loudly. “Everyone calm down and stop _fighting!_ ”

“But Kit, we’re defending your honor!”

“It’s an important job in this day and age where secularism reigns and people would like nothing better than to tear down whatever ‘vestige of respectability’ they believe you still possess in the name of tolerance,” Malta added.

 _“Gilbert,”_ Cristoforo said warningly, and then realized he was the only one pressing the issue now; and gave everyone stern looks instead of continuing to save some face.

“And most importantly,” he said loudly, switching back to his list of protocol. _“There will be no blasphemy!”_

* * *

 “And why _wouldn’t_ I want them involved?” Kyonig challenged. “NATO has a lot of troops to call on-”

“We have much more experience in rebellion than you,” Hong Kong told her, Macau claiming an empty chair and Taiwan sitting down on the table. “When big powers get involved, it’s the little people who lose.”

“Yeah,” South Korea said, popping up from nowhere. “It’s not fun at all! Fight your own battles!”

 _“Yong-Soo!”_ Taiwan exclaimed, her voice part way between indignation and shock. “We didn’t tell anyone we were coming!”

“And _we_ didn’t tell _you_ we were having this meeting,” Sakha said challengingly, daring the Asians to explain.

Macau just stared at her impassively.

“Surprise appearances originated with me!” Yong-Soo declared. “I am the _master_ of showing up unexpectedly!”

“We might have to give him that one,” Macau said under his breath.

Hong Kong ignored him.

“We have our ways. You’ll learn your own, eventually- _if_ you live that long.”

“Why are you _here?_ ” Noxc̈iyn asked suspiciously. “What do you want from us?”

“We’re here unofficially,” Taiwan interjected.

“None of you ever saw us,” Macau added.

“We’re practicing our infiltration techniques!” South Korea told them all.

Hong Kong gave him a warning glare before turning to Sakha.

“You’re planning a revolution in a world power. That means a big distraction, and we… _support_ that.”

“Especially so close to home,” Taiwan said. “Especially now.”

“What’s so special about _now?_ ” Noxc̈iyn demanded.

Hong Kong and Macau exchanged looks.

“Certain treaties in our favor will be ending soon,” Macau said. “We’d like to extend them for as long as possible.”

“With force if necessary,” Hong Kong told them. “And a revolution just across the border in an ally’s territory would provide a good distraction to the powers that would rather the agreements come to an end at the original time.”

“It would be good for you when you win,” Taiwan told the new Nations. “To have friends as neighbors; especially one like China.”

“But China’s not here,” Sakha said suspiciously.

“You start a revolution and Russia calls on China to send troops and even if he refuses he’ll have to station people on his border to keep your guys out,” South Korea explained cheerfully. “And then they have a _much_ better chance of making their coup succeed. You’d be remembered as the people who made a good distraction, and then your governments and their new governments would be friends!”

“We won’t be your lackeys!” Noxc̈iyn exclaimed angrily.

Sakha bit the inside of her cheek.

“I don’t know if this is something you have a lot of say in, Yakutiya. You’re on the other side of the continent.”

“They’re talking about using us! _All_ of us! Aren’t you tired of being used?”

“You can do whatever you want,” Kyonig said dismissively. “ _I’m_ sticking with NATO.”

“Isn’t _this_ all because we didn’t want to be used like _dogs_ by someone more powerful anymore?” Noxc̈iyn demanded, glaring around at the rest of the table.

There was a general quiet murmur of agreement.

“How are _they_ more powerful than _us?_ ” Sakha asked. “Hong Kong and Macau are just _cities._ ”

“Hong Kong has nearly seven times your _entire_ population,” Kyonig pointed out. “And a _huge_ economy.”

“I thought you said you didn’t care!”

“I said you could do whatever you want. Doesn’t mean I stop talking.”

“We’ll be proceeding with our plans no matter what you say,” Hong Kong told them. “We were just making you aware that our situations could be mutually beneficial.”

“In the long _and_ short term,” Macau added.

Noxc̈iyn scowled at Taiwan.

“What’s _your_ part in this?”

Taiwan’s face darkened.

“I am _still_ called the Republic of China, no matter what anyone else says. I’m tired of people fighting over whether I’m to be China or Taiwan- _this_ will decide it.”

“And _you?_ ” Noxc̈iyn asked South Korea.

Yong-Soo smiled enigmatically.

“Obscurity originated in me!”

Taiwan snorted.

“The offer is always open,” Hong Kong pressed. “We could work together on this and accomplish everyone’s goals.”

“I won’t work with people who just want useful pawns!” Noxc̈iyn snapped.

“We’ll think about it,” Sakha said.

Kyonig shrugged and stood up. She’d grown since her birth a few months before- always one of the oldest-looking of the new Nations, she now physically resembled a human child about to enter middle school.

“Whatever. I’m just here for looks. I’ve already _made_ my opening move.”

 _“What?”_ Sakha and Noxc̈iyn exclaimed at the same time.

The Asians looked at her questioningly.

“Mind enlightening us?” Macau asked.

Nadja Beilschmidt smiled in a way that anyone familiar with her self-proclaimed father would recognize.

“No point in waiting around, _ja_? Those that make the first move have the upper hand.”

 _“Kyonig,”_ Hong Kong said warningly.

“Keep an eye on New York.”

* * *

 Arthur sat on his usual bench in the park that his daughter and granddaughter cut through to get to the school. He flicked through the articles of the news publication that automatically downloaded to his reader every day and wished for the days of real, truly paper newspapers- there was really no way to conveniently hide behind one of these things.

He was about to give up on the reports- there was nothing new or interesting that he didn’t know about already- when the date line caught his eye.

 _You bloody_ idiot! he told himself savagely _. You couldn’t get away to see Irene and Eglantine for nearly two months, and_ now _you skip the Pope’s speech and it’s a bloody_ school holiday! _You won’t see them until next year at_ least _with your schedule!_

Angrily, England stood up and stuffed the electronic reader back into his leather satchel. There was really nothing for it now- he had sneaked out of going to the UN and the Prime Minister would hear about it, but he had the whole day off now.

It was still slightly warm, for all that it was October. It had rained earlier that morning, of course, but that only brought out that damn autumn smell that he liked so much.

He stopped in the middle of the park path and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply.

Arthur could remember when there was still a forest here, and it mostly still smelled the same, even though there was a hint of petrol on the breeze from somewhere.

Oh, this was good. The scent in the air, the distant running of the buses and the conversations of others in the park, the firm solidity of the rich earth beneath his feet, the way he could feel the British tube system humming along in his bones-

 _Bollocks to the UN. It’s a perfectly_ beautiful _autumn day and I have herbs I could harvest. Thirty-first’s a good day for it, too._

Go back home, take his shoes off, change into the clothes he wouldn’t be caught dead in anywhere else- the old jeans with the rips and the clay stains, the shirt that had seen too many house re-paintings, go into the back garden, dig his toes into the thick dark soil and forget for a little bit about everything else.

_Maybe I’ll stop by Buckingham later and treat the Queen Mother. His Majesty never even needs to know that I was there- and if he asks, I’ll just tell him that I bloody well needed a mental health day._

He chuckled to himself a little as he imagined his King sputtering indignantly at the implication that his Nation was blowing off his duties to go racing horses through the palace gardens with his mother.

“Joseph my boy,” he muttered to himself, gleefully imagining the man’s face. “I’ll have you remember that I bloody well changed your diapers when you were nothing but a little lad, and _nothing_ you ever say will make me forget that! And I once caught Sammy sneaking candy from the Palace during a school tour, which makes me able to blackmail ‘The Right Honorable Samuel Hendry’ _much_ more thoroughly than you ever will!”

Arthur smiled widely as the King in his head stood there, mortified by his Nation’s superior bargaining position.

Then the world fell out from under him.

The shock of it sent him stumbling forward, as if he’d tripped over a crack in the sidewalk. He caught himself on a lamppost and took a deep breath, bracing himself for the pain that would inevitably follow in a few seconds- was it an earthquake, a bomb, the Chunnel collapsing?

Nothing happened.

There were no sudden aches or broken bones, no unexplained, spontaneous wounds; no screaming in his head as his children died, and watched each other die-

 _What the bloody hell was_ that _?_

He straightened up and was suddenly overcome with a need to _walk that way._

 _Now, this is just_ _sodding_ peculiar _,_ he thought as his feet started to move of their own volition. _What_ is _this? A geis I didn’t know about?_

Arthur tried to fight his body’s take-over while he considered this.

 _But I was_ sure _Ireland had stopped cursing me. Maybe Scotland? Or- bloody hell, I bet its_ Wales _, I bet this is a tynged-_ fuck _you_ and _that red dragon of yours, Tristan Cadogan! When I get out of this I’m going to-_

There was a road coming up, with _traffic._

 _Oh,_ no. _Oh no oh no oh no oh shi-_

He stopped at the corner, just like any normal person.

England took a few deep breaths to calm himself down.

 _All right. Not a curse then. Can’t imagine it being any of_ theirs _-_

The crosswalk light turned and Arthur’s body took over again. This time, he mostly let it.

 _Who else could do this? That’s a bloody_ stupid _question, Kirkland, you know it could_ any _of the other Nations, it just depends on who has the motive and the time and the-_

 _-now I’m_ really _being stupid,  a lot of the younger ones don’t even know they can do this- good thing to, Alfred with magic would be a bloody_ disaster _, and I don’t even want to_ consider _what Himmler would have done if he’d found out Germany could do this if he wanted-_

He was distracted for a moment by his vision of the expression of pure horror Germany would surely have if he ever discovered his latent abilities. He’d really have to keep that in mind for the next time he needed to shock him out of something-

_-and most of the others who do know just aren’t comfortable with it or are still too intimidated by what the Vatican would do if he caught them doing it-_

Arthur was still a bit conflicted about that, to be honest. _Surely_ it was a bad thing that so many potential practitioners were missing out on an essential part of what made Nations different from humans (in his view, anyway) and ignoring the more mystical and metaphysical aspects of the universe, if you ignored them too long they tended to come back and get you for it-

-but it also meant he had less competition. It was so _useful_ when fighting, not having France or Spain or Prussia or any of the rest cursing him back or even just blocking what he was doing.

 _And God forbid that the Italies ever take up magic,_ he thought wryly. _They might actually_ win _something; the people down there are used to the miraculous and unexplainable with the Church sitting right there- I bet they’d be good_ _at it._

Which brought him back to the question. Who could it possibly be?

_Norway could, he’s still practicing; but as far as I know he’s not mad at me. It’s not Haiti; this sort of thing isn’t her style. India would never curse anyone. Romania only dabbles enough to supplement his monster-hunting. I don’t think Egypt and Finland are back in the game. Israel is too mystical, and she likes theory more than practice, even if she had that alchemy phase along with the rest of us._

The problem was that he just didn’t know much of the magical world beyond Europe.

 _I bet China practices even if I’ve never heard of him doing that sort of thing, and maybe Japan and Russia did once. But Southeast Asia, Africa, South America- I know basically_ nothing _._

England grunted in frustration as his body sat itself down on a public bench on the sidewalk near a police station, accompanied by a strong pressure to _stay here_. He’d been trying to trace the spell -geas, tynged, _whatever_ this was- to its source during his walk, but he kept getting tripped up not long after finding the magic in the first place.   

“Ainsel,” he muttered. “Help me out here. Whose magic is this? I can’t tell where it’s coming from.”

The fairy tip-toed across the top of the bench, using it like a balance beam.

“That’s because you’re looking the wrong way, silly!” she told him, fluttering her wings.

Arthur frowned at her, then took another look at this magic.

 _The wrong wa-_ oh.

“How is this _me?_ ” he snapped. “How am doing this to _myself?_ I have better control than this!”

Ainsel flopped down on bench armrest.

“ _You’re_ the one who put this in there,” she said, wiggling her feet in the air.

“What the bloody hell-”

She jumped up suddenly and grabbed his ear, hauling his head around.

“Wh- _Ainsel,_ that bloody well _hur-_ ”

* * *

 Feliks stuffed some more bread in his mouth and grabbed his briefcase on the way out the door. He gave a quick glance at the garage door- but at this point he could run to the Vatican faster than he could drive there, even if a Nation driving a car tended to unconsciously collapse distances like what happened when they really _focused_ on walking somewhere.

Cars still needed roads, after all.

He dashed out into the road, checking for traffic on his left as he started to cross-

Tires screeched on his right and Feliks froze on instinct _–stupid,_ totally _stupid, why do Nations_ have _human instincts anyway?-_ and slammed his hand onto the hood of the car to keep his balance. The vehicle had just managed to hit his legs before stopping, and he was pretty sure he’d be limping badly the whole way to Rome.

He leaned against the car for a moment, and realized that his hand had left an indent. And that his wrist was probably broken.

“I’m totally okay!” he said loudly, lying through his teeth as he waited for his legs to feel like they’d move again. “You didn’t hit me that hard and I’ve like, _really_ got to go ‘cause I’m _totally_ late, I was supposed to be on a flight to New York like, an _hour_ ago and now I’ve got to find a different plane, and your hood’s dented a bit but if you call Kinga Winogrodzki’s office and say Feliks Łukasiewicz told you to call about damages they’ll _totally_ pay for repairs, I promise even though it sounds kinda crazy-”

The driver’s side door opened and for a moment Poland thought he’d have to make an ungracious exit by running off into the distance in spite of the condition of his legs, but then the driver emerged.

 _“Grażyna?”_ he asked, too surprised to come with anything else.

“I _will_ be calling the Prime Minister about this!” she told him, storming around to the front of the car. “What in God’s name are you _doing?_ ”

“Trying to like, get to New York before the Pope addresses the UN-”

“With _Teodozja Pakulski!_ With my son’s _girlfriend!_ ”

Poland glanced over at the passenger’s side of the car. Mieczysław was hovering uncertainly, torn between dashing into the house to find Teodozja and trying to reconcile the man he’d heard on the phone with the one who had just told them to call the Polish Prime Minister because he had to go listen to the Pope speak to the UN in New York City.

“Woah, Miesko, that was _you_ on the phone earlier, wasn’t it? That’s _totally_ cool, I haven’t talked to you since you were like, _four._ ”

“I told you after _last_ time never to speak to him again!” Grażyna yelled.

“But he’s-”

“ _Don’t talk to him!_ I don’t want you…”

She struggled for words.

“ _Corrupting_ him!”

_“Grażyna!”_

“ _Mamus-_ ”

“Mieczysław, go inside!” she ordered. “Go find Teodozja and get her in the car! I don’t know _what_ he’s told her to make her stay, but it’s _not_ healthy for her to be-”

“What could _possibly_ be healthier for her than living with _me?_ ” Feliks demanded. “ _She’s a Polish citizen!_ There’s no one else on like, _the entire planet_ who could take better care of her than me!”

“ _Mam-_ ”

“Her _parents_ could, you-”

“Yeah, ‘cause they were like, _totally_ doing a _fantastic_ job when she-”

“ _Pan_ Łukasiewicz!” Teodozja cried, bursting out the front door. “I was upstairs and I heard the car; are you oka-”

She realized who the car belonged to, and stopped.

“ _P-Pani_ Król-”

“Teodozja, get in the car,” Grażyna ordered. “We’re getting you out of here before this _man_ can do anything to you. You never should have run away from your parents!”

“B-But _Pani_ Król-”

“ _Now_ , Teodozja! I’m going to take you home. Where did you move to? I was sure your family had left the city entirely-”

“ _Pani_ Król, I _can’t_ -”

“Yes you can, Dosia, I don’t care _what_ he’s said to convince you that you can’t, there is _nothing_ keeping you here-”

Feliks forced himself to straighten up and pushed away from the car.

“Grażyna, you don’t-”

He tried to take a step and his badly-injured legs gave out. He landed heavily on his hurt hand.

Poland shrieked in equal parts shock and pain. If he hadn’t broken anything before, things were definitely broken _now._

“ _Pan_ Łukasiewicz!” Dosia cried, and dashed to his side, kneeling on the road next to him. “Are- How badly are you hurt? Do you need a hospital?”

“He said he was okay!” Mieczysław exclaimed, sounding panicked.

“He would say something that,” Grażyna half-snarled. “That’s the sort of person he is, deceit-”

 _“Shut up!”_ Poland screamed at her, the pain making him lose his temper. “Stop talking about me like that!”

“ _P-Pan_ Łukasiewicz, you’re _bleeding_ all over-”

“I’ll be totally fine, Dosia,” Feliks told her. He looked down at himself as best he could and tried to breathe through his nose. At least one of his pant legs was starting to get soaked with blood. “Just- Just get me inside.”

“We can continue this there,” Grażyna told him as Dosia got him to stand up and lean against her.

It sounded like a threat.

* * *

 Russia clapped along with the rest of the room as the Pope finished his speech; then turned his attention back to Pavel’s list as the man walked slowly away from the podium and into the growing crowd of other Nations’ bosses and dignitaries.

He had no idea what do with this list.

 _I cannot lose any of them. They are all_ my _people, all of it_ my _land- I fought for it and suffered for it and I_ cannot _\- we have to-_

There was a familiar pain settling in his chest. Betrayal.

 _I have made many mistakes, but surely not enough for_ this. _I am_ trying, _I have always tried to make things better, it just has not worked yet-_

He knew these names all too well. These names were a part of him.

 _Chechnya was troublesome and that was a mistake, but we_ fixed _it… Sakha; Sakha, there has never been anything wrong with Sakha,_ why, _why this… the Autonomous Oblast, we were giving them_ space, _the Soviets let them keep their culture, that was_ so _much more than everyone else had-_

The list went on and on-

_They hate me._

This was something Ivan knew- something he’d always known, he just managed to forget it occasionally; when it seemed like things might be changing, that maybe his people could love him. That they _did_ love him, and always had.

_They all hate me and I try so hard for them. I try so hard for everyone and all it ever does is hurt. I hurt myself, I hurt my people; my family, the ones I would call friends-_

And suddenly, it was just all too much. Having the child-Nations in his house, hating him from the shadows; sitting and watching and feeling each day as his children left him; being _here,_ having this meeting scheduled when he wanted nothing more than to forget about everything for a little while-

It was almost enough to make him want to stop trying; but that was something he’d never been able to do. He had to try.

Russia had to be better for the children he loved.

Ivan grabbed the list, folded it up, and shoved it into his suit pocket. The Pope had managed to reach the Russian delegation’s general vicinity, and was exchanging a few words with the Polish Delegate- where _was_ Poland? He would never have thought him one to skip any sort of event with the Pope, and it looked like the Vatican had noticed because he was scanning the room for his wayward friend from his spot near the Vicar of Christ.

“Sir?” Pavel asked from his seat next to his uncle-employer.

The Pope was speaking to _Prezident_ Pajari now; Russia could faintly hear their words as a whisper in the back of his mind.

“I will just wait until His Holiness has finished speaking with Luka, _da_? And then we can go away for our meeting-”

One of his delegation members- or maybe one of his boss’s aides?- stepped away from the group and placed his suitcase on the long table set up on the tier of seating below Russia’s position. Ivan reached for his papers- he was _sure_ he had everything they would need for his meeting, it wasn’t like he needed the statistics and the poll results and even if his boss did _those_ papers were right there on the desk in front of Pavel-

The man opened his suitcase. There were no papers inside.

There were bits of metal and plastic and brightly colored things and a switch and he _knew what it was for-_

 _“Vzryv!”_ he shouted, shoving Pavel to the floor and scrambling over the desk while trying to remember the right word in every language he could think of. _“Zhadan; bombe, bomba, BOMB!”_

* * *

 Irene hovered around the storefronts, watching the police station, Eglantine’s abduction note clutched in her hand.

She knew she should go to the police and report her daughter stolen, but-

How on _Earth_ was she supposed to explain Mr. Fox?

_No, Officer, I only ever knew his last name, and I’m not even sure if that’s his real one. No, I don’t know where he lives. Yes, he’s been stalking me. No, I don’t know if he’s really her father. No, I didn’t know I was cheating on my husband at the time- he looked exactly like Joseph until I woke up the next morning. Yes, I know he contrived my husband’s death; no, I don’t have proof and I have no idea how or why._

Yes, that would go _so_ well. They’d probably decide that she was one of those women who killed their children and tried to pass it off as abduction for some sick reason.

The clerk at the counter inside the store was starting to look at her strangely, so she crossed the street. There was a bench there, near the police station- she could sit there and do some more thinking without looking like a complete lunatic.

Irene sat down and politely ignored the other man sitting there, rubbing his ear and scowling at the armrest.

“Are you all right?”

The man, apparently, wasn’t ignoring her.

“Oh- yes,” she replied, glancing up at him. “Yes, I’m fi-”

_I know this man._

It was the man from the park on Eglantine’s first day of school, the one Lana had said was friends with her Ainsel-

_-the one that looks suspiciously like the man I used to serve coffee to back in my college days-_

She blinked a few times.

Where had _that_ come from? She hadn’t thought about Mr. Kirkland since the day she met Joseph-

_-you never saw him again after the day you met Joseph-_

And it couldn’t be him anyway, that had been-

 _Your daughter sees fairies-_ you _sort-of see fairies. You hav-_ had _incredibly good luck. Your life has been plagued by some sort of sorcerer, who_ also _never looks like he aged any._ You know better _._

“Mr. Kirkland?” she asked, before she’d really thought about it.

The man twitched slightly, and his eyes opened a fraction of a centimeter wider.

And, for the first time in a long while, Irene could feel the tug of her luck.

It was _beautiful._

“I don’t know if you remember me,” she said, feeling a little like the sort of person she used to be, before Joseph and fairies and Mr. Fox. “But I used to serve you coffee every morning at the Newhaven Café, and then back in August my daughter stopped you in the park and asked you about her- friend.”

The man took a second to respond.

“Ah- yes, I remember that,” he said. “It was interesting. And I… I thought you looked familiar.”

“I was just surprised to see you here. I didn’t expect that I’d ever run into you again after you stopped coming to the café, and now I’ve seen you twice in less than half a year where I hadn’t seen you at all in a lot longer than that.”

Irene knew from experience that by now he would be feeling the pull of her luck on him, if he hadn’t already- Joseph had told her about it one time, after she told him about her charmed life.

The luck hadn’t lasted long after that.

“Irene Walker,” she said, offering her hand.

He looked at her oddly –just for a second, she’d almost missed it but _her luck was pulling through now_ \- before taking her hand.

“Arthur Kirkland,” he said, before smiling a little. “Well, Ms. Walker, let’s try this again- are you all right?”

She opened her mouth to reply, but her luck tugged at her again.

“No,” she said eventually. “No, I’m actually not.”

“Oh?” Mr. Kirkland asked, raising an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“My daughter’s been kidnapped.”

“B- Why are you sitting out _here,_ then? Go tell the police! They’re _right there,_ for God’s sake!”

“I don’t think they can help.”

He looked slightly offended for some reason.

“And why the bloody hell not?” he asked. “They’re a _fine_ group of professionals-”

“I know they are,” Irene said. “But-”

A flicker of movement caught her eye. She saw a flash of a dragonfly’s wing, colored wrong; and a tangle of hair that _definitely_ couldn’t belong to the man she was talking to-

-the air above his shoulder, on the side of the ear he’d been rubbing earlier, was sparkling in a way that Irene had come to realize, through Eglantine’s much clearer Sight, meant fairies.

And then her luck was pushing at her again, stronger than she could ever remember, or maybe it was just that she had gotten out of the habit of letting it steer her life-

“But I think that they’d have a hard time finding someone like Mr. Fox,” Irene continued, holding out her daughter’s abduction note. “And I think you know that too, Mr. Kirkland, and if you don’t I’m pretty sure Ainsel will tell you so.”

The man’s chin jerked up, and Irene could hear- distantly, as if someone had left their window open- a laugh like a young child’s.

 _We warned you,_ a whispery voice said; and Irene was fairly certain she wasn’t the one Ainsel was talking to. _We warned you we warned you we warned you when you met Naomi-_

Mr. Kirkland scowled; and in one, very definite move, swept the sparkle-that-was-Ainsel to Irene’s rudimentary Sight off his shoulder.

“So that French bastard is causing trouble again, hm?” he asked, taking the note without even giving it a glance. “Seducing people and such?”

And Irene knew she had him.

“Yes.”

_He’s French?_

“Me, actually,” she continued. “He thinks that Eglantine –my daughter- is his. I think that’s why he took her.”

Mr. Kirkland folded the note up and tucked it away in the breast pocket of his suit jacket, raising an eyebrow at her.

“ _Is_ she?”

“I don’t know,” Irene admitted, looking down at her feet. “But Eglantine is definitely more- _magical,_ than I am.”

“Well then,” Mr. Kirkland said, standing. “It looks quite like you _will_ need me.”

He offered her his arm.

“Let’s continue this at my house, shall we?”

* * *

 Heinrich was still waiting for the meeting to start when two young women sat down near him, one over one and back a row, and the other right next to him. He looked over at them curiously for a moment- it had been a deliberate move. There were more chairs still empty.

The woman sitting the row behind him poked her friend hard between the shoulders when she avoided looking at him.

“Eh-” she stuttered. “ _Elke ha detto sei italiano_?”

Heinrich was taken aback for a moment, then pleasantly surprised. He knew that accent.

“And German,” he replied in Italian, letting his father’s city come out full force in his words. “You’re Venetian too?”

She lit up.

“Of course!” she told him happily. “Uh- I’m Adriana Pace. My family lives on Cannaregio.”

Something about that was resonating in Heinrich’s memory. Cannaregio, Cannaregio- Pace-

“Giacomo Pace?” he asked, recalling the name of the Rabbi of the Venetian synagogue he’d been to the few times.

Now Adriana was surprised.

“My uncle,” she told him. “I don’t think I’ve heard of you-”

“Heinrich Beilschmidt,” Heinrich said automatically. “Uh, well, I gave Elke my middle name. Marco. I wasn’t sure-”

Adriana smiled a little sheepishly.

“Yeah, I’m only here because my roommate comes. I wasn’t really sure about it either, but…”

She just shrugged some instead of finishing the sentence.

* * *

Teodozja got Poland into the living room, but paused when they reached the couch.

“Dosia,” Feliks said. “A little blood on the upholstery isn’t going to be like, the end of the world. It’ll totally wash out eventually.”

“Okay,” she agreed quietly, and lowered him carefully onto the couch.

Feliks leaned back into the cushions.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Mieczysław asked, still sounding panicky. “He looks like he _really_ needs a hospital. Or a doctor at least, I _know_ none of us can-”

Feliks grabbed the cloth of his pants with his good hand and pulled. The seams tore easily, and he dropped the bloody fabric onto the floor.

“I’m going to need the elastic bandage, the medical tape, a glass of ice, the rubbing alcohol, and like, _all_ the gauze bandages,” he said. “D-”

“I’ve got it, _Pan_ Łukasiewicz,” Dosia said, leaving the room as fast as she could without running. She went to the kitchen first and pulled out a glass.

“Uh, Dosia-”

She opened the freezer.

“Mieczysław, the medical supplies are in the hall closet upstairs on the landing. Could you go-”

“Teodozja, _what is going on?_ We should be taking that guy to the hospital-”

“If _Pan_ Łukasiewicz says that he doesn’t need a hospital, then I trust that he doesn’t need a hospital,” Dosia replied, filling the glass and closing the freezer. She put the glass on the table and headed for the stairs.

Mieczysław followed her up the steps.

“That Łukasiewicz guy was talking about the _Prime Minister_ earlier. And the UN. And the _Pope!_ ”

“Well, he _is_ supposed to be in New York right now,” she said, rummaging through the hall closet. “And _Pan_ Łukasiewicz had _Pani_ Winogrodzki over for dinner last week. She liked my sirloin.”

There was stunned silence for a moment.

“You _cooked_ for the _Prime Minister?_ ”

“Yes,” she said, trying to hold all the bandages in one hand while she reached for the medical tape.

“Did you _all_ have sir-”

Down the hallway, something wailed.

“Hold these!” Dosia ordered him, shoving the first-aid supplies at him before flying down the hallway. He stopped to pick them up off the floor and grab the rubbing alcohol before following her.

She came back out of the room she’d dashed into and closed the door before he could see what she was keeping in there. She took the bandages and tape from him and started back for the stairs.

“Dosia, what was _that?_ ”

“ _‘That’_ ,” Teodozja said flatly. She stopped at the bottom of stairs and turned toward him. “That was your _daughter,_ Mieczysław.”

She turned away again and headed for the kitchen.

“Not that _you_ care.”

He stood on the stairs for a few seconds, stunned. Then he went after her.

“Dos-”

“I don’t want to talk to you, Mieczysław,” she told him as she brushed past and back into the living room. “Just help if I tell you to.”

Feliks smiled at her as she knelt on the floor in front of the couch.

“Just put the glass on the table, ‘kay? I’m going to set my wrist and then you wrap it up as _absolutely_ tight as you can with the elastic.”

“But _Pan_ -”

“You’ve got to like, trust me on this, ‘kay Dosia?” he said, and popped a few ice cubes in his mouth. He bit down on them and focused on the uncomfortable chill seeping into his teeth and gums. Grabbing his injured wrist, he moved the bones back into position as best he could.

It _hurt._ He thought about how the chill in his jaw was like the cold in his bones that told him he was going to freeze to death.

The humans in the room could hear the bones grating against each other.

 _“Oh God,”_ Mieczysław whispered. He looked like he was going to be sick.

Grażyna tried to keep up her glaring, but had to look away when she saw the bones moving under his skin.

Dosia was biting the inside of her cheeks to fend off nausea, but stayed focused.

Poland removed his hand and she went to work with the elastic bandage, holding one end against the heel of his palm to avoid moving the bones. She kept the bandage as taunt as she could as she wrapped, and finished off the dressing with the metal fastenings that held the ends in place.

Feliks moved the ice cubes around his mouth and crunched them up with his molars.

“Good,” he said after he’d swallowed, his smile a bit shakier now. “The rest is going to be _way_ easier. You see where my legs are like, all torn up? Just use the other bandages and the alcohol for that.”

He stuck more ice cubes in his mouth while Dosia opened up the bottle of rubbing alcohol. It wasn’t going to hurt nearly as much as setting his wrist, but it was nice to have a distraction.

Grazyna snatched the opportunity to talk without Feliks being able to interrupt her.

“Teodozja, you don’t have to do this.”

“Yes I do, _Pani_ Król,” she replied. “He’s hurt.”

“We can call the hospital and be done with it. You need to _leave._ You need to go _home._ I’m sure your parents are worried sick about you-”

“I _really_ doubt it.”

“Don’t speak about your parents that way, Dosia. You are their _daughter._ They love you; and they want you home-”

“No, they don’t.”

“Dosia, I don’t know what he said to make you believe that, but it’s _not_ true.”

“He didn’t have to tell me that my parents don’t want me,” Dosia said, setting the bottle aside and starting to wrap the gauze around Feliks’s right calf. “I figured it out by myself.”

“Life can be rough at your age, Dosia, but that doesn’t mean running away is the answer. Just get your things and put them in the car- tell me where your family moved to and I’ll take you there, even if it’s Szczecin or Gdańsk-”

“I can’t tell you, _Pani_ Król.”

“Teodozja, if he’s _threatened_ you-”

Dosia taped the gauze in place and squeezed her eyes shut.

“I can’t _tell_ you because I don’t know where they _are!_ They kicked me out into the street before they moved!”

Grażyna was silent. Mieczysław looked like he wanted to say something; but didn’t.

Dosia moved on to bandaging Poland’s other leg.

“Well,” Grażyna said after a few moments. “Even if they did, you can home with us. I’m sure we can arrange something-”

“Thank you, _Pani_ Król, but I have a place here already.”

“Teodozja, you can’t _stay_ here!” she said. “You haven’t been in school, you don’t have an adult here to watch you, and at your age you can barely make enough to buy food, let alone pay rent! You’re staying in a house with- with an irresponsible cross-dressing inhuman _monster!_ ”

 _“What?”_ Mieczysław half-screamed. 

“Or did he not tell you he wasn’t human?”

_“WHAT?”_

Teodozja taped off the last bandage and stood, turning to face Grażyna.

“I don’t know _what_ you have against _Pan_ Łukasiewicz, _Pani_ Król, but he is _not_ the person you keep saying he is! He’s taken _good_ care of me when no one else did-”

“If you feel indebted to him, Dosia, you _shouldn’t._ There is _nothing_ keeping you here-”

_“Yes there is!”_

Grażyna frowned at her outburst.

“And what would that be?”

Teodozja took a deep breath.

“My _daughter._ ”

Grażyna’s eyes widened.

_“What?”_

Feliks finished chewing on the last of the ice.

“Roksana,” he said. _“Your granddaughter.”_

Grażyna’s mouth worked silently for a few moments, and then she turned to her son.

_“Mieczysław-”_

His eyes dropped mutely to the floor as he looked away from his mother and hunched over.

The woman’s expression changed into controlled rage.

“ _Well_ then.”

She looked back at Poland.

“You have to get yourself into _every_ bit of my life, don’t you?” she asked bitterly.

“You only think that, Grażyna,” he responded quietly.

“Even the bits I don’t know about, you have to be involved in!”

She stood and loomed over him. Teodozja got up quickly and tried to get between them, but Feliks waved her away.

“Grażyna, I listened to you when you married that man and sent me a letter saying you never wanted to hear from me again instead of an invitation. I listened to you when you screamed at me in the park to stay away from Mieczysław. But I totally _shouldn’t_ have listened to you, and I’m _absolutely_ not going to do it now. I _don’t_ understand what’s going on in your head, and I _totally_ don’t get why you _hate_ me so much-”

“ _You ruined my life!_ Do you have any _idea_ what I had to put up with, being your daughter?”

“The _hell?_ ” Mieczysław said, eyes wide. “There’s no _way_ that guy’s old enough to be my grandfather!”

Poland smiled at him, showing a little too much teeth.

“I’m like, twelve hundred years old or something. I’m _totally_ old enough to be your grandfather.”

“Who the hell _are_ you?” his grandson asked, sounding slightly terrified.

“Oh, you _totally_ know me. You’ve _always_ known me, you just didn’t like, _know_ it.”

He leaned back against the couch cushions again, and smirked.

“ _I,_ Mieczysław Król, am _Rzeczpospolita Polska_.”

“Oh my God,” Mieczysław said. He looked ready to faint. _“Mamusia- you hit him with the car!”_

“Well it’s not that much of a problem for him, now is it?” she snapped.

Mieczysław buried his hands in his hair and started pacing nervously.

“I- I’m getting out of here,” he announced. “This- this is-”

He gave up on words and just bolted for the door.

“Mieczysław!” Grażyna called. When he didn’t come back, she stood up and glared at her father.

“That wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t such a _freak,_ ” she said, heading after her son.

“That wouldn’t have happened if you’d _told_ him,” Poland replied.

His daughter ignored him and called back to Teodozja.

“You’re welcome to come to us any time, Dosia. Living with people like _him_ is no way to have a life.”

The door slammed shut and Poland sighed.

“Dosia? Could you like, help me lie down?”

Teodozja lifted his legs carefully onto the couch and Feliks settled against the pillows on the couch’s armrest.

“Well, she was right about a couple things,” he said after a couple of moments spent in silence.

“ _Pan_ Łukasiewicz, she _wasn’t_ -”

“You haven’t been going to school,” Poland told her. “You like, _totally_ need to do that. Education is like, the _foundation_ of society. Were you going to go to a university?”

“I was in a Liceum-”

“So then you’re _totally_ going to go to university. You need to get back to learning if you’re going to like, pass your _matura_.”

“I can’t leave Roksana-”

“I said you needed to _learn,_ not like, go to school. Unless you want to.”

Dosia was finding herself in another one of those moments that had suddenly been coming so frequently- everything was moving so _fast,_ spurred on by her landlord’s-

_-Just give it up. You don’t pay rent. He’s just Pan Łukasiewicz-_

-her _Nation’s_ unwavering confidence and self-assuredness.

“I-I’d rather stay with Roksana-”

“That’s cool. What’s your modern language?”

“German-”

“Awesome. I can like, _totally_ get Prussia to give you some lessons- not that I can’t like, teach you _myself._ Germany will be _way_ happy to get him out of his house, and if you promise him food he won’t like, destroy anything.”

_“Prussia-”_

“Just go with it, ‘kay? I’m not great with mathematics, but I might be able to like, get Estonia or somebody. Oh, I could _totally_ get Germany over here for that- we could have like, a drinking party or something _and_ do German-”

“ _Pan_ Łukasiewicz, I’m not old enough to drink. And I don’t think I’d learn very well if was drunk.”

“Or we could like, have a food party and invite _everybody._ That would be a _totally_ great way to learn about world cultures! Were you going to have additional exams?”

“Um…”

Dosia was starting to feel a bit overwhelmed. She _knew_ she had planned on doing another exam or two besides the requirements, but she couldn’t remember what they were anymore-

“It’s _totally_ okay with me if you don’t know yet, but you’re going to have to decide like, _soon._ ”

“N-No, I- I was going to do some more, but I don’t know-”

“It’s cool whatever you decide, but I’ve got to say that you’re in like, _the_ _best_ position _ever_ to learn history and language. Like, _everybody_ I know _lives_ the stuff. And philosophy, they’re pretty good at that too. We’ve all had like, _ages_ to think about stuff.”

“T-Th-”

“Like, if you wanted to do the history of art or music, I could _totally_ have Italy up here like _that_ to tell you about it _._ We’ve been best friends since like, for _ever._ Except World War Two. That was shit, but we all managed to get through it eventually.”

“ _Pan_ Łukasiewicz, I- thank y-“

“Dosia,” Feliks said, smiling widely. “You don’t have to thank me for this stuff.”

“B-But you’re- Still-”

“Hey, could you get me the phone? I need to like, call somebody and tell them I’m not showing up in New York. I’m totally not going anywhere for the rest of the day, so if you like, bring Roksana down here we can figure out what you already know about. And then I can tell you stories about the Commonwealth!”

* * *

 Old wartime reflexes kicked in immediately all over the room.

 _“DOWN!”_ Germany roared, grabbing his _Bundeskanzlerin_ and shoving her down to the floor, falling over her protectively. He heard his brother hit the floor just moments after he did, dragging the German UN delegate along with him and he something brush his shoulder and _Südtirol has never been to war before-_

He pulled her down under him just as the bomb went off.

It was the usual business- a deafening explosion that shook him to his bones with the shockwave with the secondary noises of things shattering and fracturing under the enormous stress and the _crackle-pop_ of fire catching in the carpet and wood and people screaming over the rain-like patter of debris coming to rest accompanied by the feeling of bits of it against his back.

There was a loud splintering crash from somewhere nearby, and then it was over.

Ludwig coughed in the dust-filled, smoky air and sat up slowly, pushing away a few splintered bits of desks and chairs. He checked the immediate area quickly- part of one of the tables had been thrown into their row and was lying across the two tiers, blocking the entrance to the middle aisle behind them; and in front of them Georgia and France were picking themselves and their delegations up.

“ _Bundeskanzlerin_?” he asked quietly as she sat up.

“Vera?” he tried again when she didn’t respond. “Are you all right?”

She opened her mouth to say something, but just looked lost. Ludwig reached over and squeezed her shoulder.

“This happens sometimes; but you’re alive. Are you unhurt?”

“I- Someone had a bomb.”

Germany took a quick second to check on his delegate and his brother. Gilbert seemed to be about three seconds away from shaking the man into consciousness, but he didn’t look too worried-

“I know,” he replied. “Give yourself a little bit of time and the world will go back to normal. Just tell me right now- _are you all right?_ ”

“I- maybe?”

Her voice sounded shaky and uncertain, but at the very least she probably didn’t have a concussion and nothing was obviously broken, so Germany decided to let it wait until someone got the paramedics to show up.

“Lutz, I think he might need a hospital or something,” Prussia said, shaking their delegate again. “He’s not waking up-”

“You’re sure it isn’t shock?” Germany asked, getting his feet under him.

“Dunno, could be, that’s why I said _‘might’_ -”

Ludwig was about to stand up when Südtirol launched herself at him and buried her face in his stomach.

“ _Deutschland_ ,” she whimpered. “ _Habe Angst_.”

He swept her up in a tight hug and settled back against the next tier, kissing her hair.

“I know, _Süβling_ ,” he told her quietly, soothingly. “Bombs are scary. But it’s over now, and we’re both all right-”

There was the sound of frantic scrambling and Veneziano appeared over the top of one of the desks.

 _“Lud-”_ he started to cry, face panicked.

“I’m fine, _Spatzi_ ,” Ludwig said, holding an arm out. Feliciano collapsed against him and clutched his love in relief, sparing a hand to stroke Südtirol’s face lightly.

“ _Sta bene_ , Vittoria,” he murmured. “ _Tutto sta bene_.”

Germany sighed to release some tension he hadn’t quite realized was building up in his chest.

“Who’s hurt?” he called to the room- everyone should have finished checking over their people and it was best to know who needed help _before_ the help showed up-

“Imeda and I are fine,” France answered, standing and brushing himself off.

“That’s what _you_ think,” Georgia groaned. “My ears are still ringing.”

“Kit!” Gilbert called, pulling himself upright. “C’mon Kit; talk to me!”

Prussia’s plea seemed to set something off in the other Nations.

_“TIMO!”_

“Lovi, Lovi, you’re okay, right? _Right?!_ ”

“Why the hell _wouldn’t_ I be fine; I’m all the way down here!”

“ _Mattie!_ Mattie; if these terrorists _touched you I_ **_swear_** _-_ ”

“Somebody smack America before he starts another war.”

_“AkDievsakDievsakDievsakDievsakDievs-”_

“ _LATVIA!_ Latvia- _Lāti_ ; _Raivis,_ calm down calm down _please_ calm down I’m coming-”

“Dammit, San Mar- _Melchiorre_ , you fucking better _not_ be-”

“Berwald, _please_ don’t hug me so hard; I’m having enough trouble breathing with all this smoke-”

“Why the _hell_ hasn’t someone gotten the damn fire extinguisher yet!”

“ _Kit!_ Kit, can’t you hear me?”

“Um… the fire extinguisher is kind of… _stuck?_ ”

“Oh, for God’s sake- just move, _I’ll_ get it-”

“Lisbeth, _please_ be careful-”

“ _Liesl! Liesl!_ _Schwesterlein_ , _bitte_ \- **_Dänemark!_** Get over here and help me find her or don’t you _want_ this wedding of yours to happen on time?!”

“ _Broer_? Falko; Falko wake up, _get_ _up_ \- Wehrner, help me!”

“Reardon, where’d you go? _Sin bastaird Béarla; beidh mé a mharú air má tá tú Gortaítear_ -”

“P-P- _Please_ don’t kill England, _Dadai_ , I’m sure he has a good reason not to be here-”

“ _Belgique_ , _ch_ _éri_ , is your _frère_ all right? Do you need some assistance?”

_“KIT!”_

The clamor was drowned out for a few moments by the sweet sound of the fire extinguisher going off.

“-m fine, eh? Now _let go,_ Al.”

“ _Schweiz_ , I found her- c’mon Leez, what am I supposed to tell Andreas if the wedding gets called off ‘cause you were too hurt to show up?” 

“Thank you Mathias _now get your hands off her you haven’t entered into that personal union yet!_ ”

_“I could use another fire extinguisher over here!”_

“Ahg! _Norge_ , help me!”

“ _Nei._ I’m busy and you’re just going to have to get used to this sort of thing.”

“Ow, _my head_ -”

“ _B-Brat_? Vanya; Vanya, answer me-”

“I’ve got one, Hungary-”

“Oh God- _Sverige!_ I could really use some Viking help right now!”

“ _Y’r_ a Viking. ‘nd _Norge_ ’s right.”

_“Kit **say** **something!** ”_

“ _Bróðir_ , please-”

_“VANYA! Ax Bozhe, Brat, pohovory zi mnoyu!”_

“Oh _man,_ his guts are _all over_ the place!”

And before anyone got a chance to properly process that thought, the Vatican screamed.

* * *

Verena the Front Desk Secretary grabbed onto her chair as the building rocked slightly. A faint _boom_ rippled through the air, making the window glass set into the office doors rattle a little in their moorings.

“What was _that?_ ” David the Intern asked from the couch.

“Earthquake?” Agion Oros suggested.

“That was an _explosion!_ ” Sealand declared. “Like when you get a fire in a gas tank!”

Crete’s eyes were narrowed. She was rocking back and forth on her heels slightly, thinking and feeling.

“Bomb,” she said finally, eyes flying open. “In the General Assembly.”

The room fell silent.

“In- In the General Assembly?” Zell asked hesitantly. “You’re sure?”

She nodded.

Zell tried to hide it, but her face betrayed the fearful knot rising her throat.

“…Pavel was supposed to be down there today,” Miervaldis said after a moment.

They looked at each other for a moment, and then simultaneously ran for the door.

 _“Wait!”_ Crete called. “They won’t-”

* * *

Russia was giggling.

And why not?

Well, actually he was pretty sure this was a bad time to be doing it, and he wasn’t even sure why he was doing it, but _why not?_

After all, if you couldn’t laugh when you were hurt, you had no business laughing any other time!

And his _sestra_ was here! She was sitting with him and she wanted to talk!

Life was good.

 _“Katyusha!”_ he said happily. “It is so good to see you!”

“V-Vanya-” Ukraine stuttered, eyes teary. “Y-You-”

“Oh _man,_ his guts are _all over_ the place!” America exclaimed, appearing from somewhere.

Someone familiar screamed, but that wasn’t really important. There were people talking to him! It would be rude to ignore them for something like that!

“I did well, _da_?” he asked, unable to stop himself from smiling more. “There was a man with a bomb in his suitcase and I jumped on them to stop it!”

“Dude, that’s what you do with _grenades-_ ”

“They both blow up though! Ah, but I think the man blew up into little bits, too.”

Ivan frowned at this. That was rather disappointing, actually.

“That is sad. I would have liked to know what he wanted. People with bombs _always_ want something, _don’t they America?_ ”

Now where did _that_ come from? He was happy! So so happy and he loved _the_ _whole world!_

Oh, apparently it was the Vatican who had screamed. He could see people gathering around him. Was he hurt? Mostly he just looked like he was crying.

Oh, but some of them were coming to see _him!_ What a happy day this was!

Turkey stared at him for a moment.

“He’s in shock, isn’t he? He looks completely delirious and it’s _freaking me out._ ”

“ _Da_ , I am deliriously happy to see you all! I _knew_ I had friends!”

“Okay, dude, I’m with you on this,” America told Turkey. “That was creepy.”

“I am not cree _epyyyyyyyy!_ ” Ivan whined, pouting. “I am a big cuddly Mother Russia bear!”

“Oh God. Mattie, can you make me unhear that? _Please_ say you can make me unhear that.”

Ivan could see his boss staring at him, fixated in horror.

“ _Privét_ , Luka!” he called, trying and failing to wave. He couldn’t raise his arm. Oh well. “Look! I am making lots of wonderful friends and we will hug and kiss and make world peace together!”

“Dude, _no._ ”

“Don’t you _like_ the idea of world peace?” America asked- America? Now why were there two Americas? But this meant he could be _twice_ as friendly with America!

“We should stich his intestines back up,” Turkey said. “Katenka, do you have one of those travel-sized sewing kit things?”

“N-No-”

“Hey! Who’s got a sewing kit handy?”

Austria was coming over!

That was nice.

“I have one.”

Turkey snorted.

“ _‘Course_ you do,” he said, taking it from him and popping the little plastic case open. “Have any alcohol?”

“There are plenty of situations in which having a needle and thread convenient is useful; and _no,_ I am _not_ so crass as to sneak intoxicants into a meeting, _unlike certain people I could name._ ”         

“I have not had any vodka in more than a week,” Ivan said virtuously.

“Good for you, Ivan,” Sadık told him, sounding almost soothing as he put a hand on his shoulder. “Could you lie down? Now somebody go hit England- damn, that imperialist bastard isn’t here, is he?- Lithuania or somebody over the head with something and get me something to sterilize stuff with!”

“You used a lot of ‘somethings’ there, Sadık!” Ivan remarked cheerfully, letting himself fall sideways. “Hello there, floor! We can be friends too, _da_?”

“He’s _really_ out of it,” America said. “And I’ve got hand sanitizer. Does that work?”

“Yeah, well would you rather have him screaming his head off?” Turkey snapped, threading the longest, thinnest needle he could find in the kit. “Now gimme that and move your ass, kid, you’re in my light.”

“What the hell are _you_ doing playing doctor?” Romano grumbled.

“You remember the Renaissance?” Sadık demanded, settling himself cross-legged next to Russia and squirting some the hand sanitizer out of the bottle. “You remember all that stuff those ‘natural philosophers’ were ‘discovering’ about the human body? I’d known about that stuff for _centuries_ before any of you did. _My_ doctors didn’t go around killing people.”

“Yeah, well you don’t have to fucking _rub it in,_ bastard. I brought you your alcohol.”

“Thanks,” he muttered, taking the bottle from him- it actually probably _was_ Lithuania’s.

Ivan watched him sleepily as he opened the bottle and dunked the needle into the liquid.

“Don’t try and maul me, okay?” Sadık asked him, bringing the bottle over his stomach. “‘Cause this’ll probably hurt, even with you so out of it.”

“Eh?” he asked. “But-”

Turkey tipped the bottle and the alcohol splashed out onto his stomach and oh God, _where had that gaping hole come from,_ that _hurt_ -

Russia bit back a scream and tightened his hand around his sister’s. He hadn’t even realized she’d taken it.

“Hey, hey, you did good, kid,” Sadık told him as he put the half-empty bottle down, sounding reassuring. “Gotta sterilize the wound, you know. Haven’t you ever gotten one infected before? Hurts like hell when it heals up, I tell you. Takes longer, too.”

“Katyusha,” Ivan whimpered. “Katyusha, it doesn’t feel happy anymore.”

“I know, Vanya, I know,” she said soothingly, stroking his hair back from his face. “You’ll feel better soon, though. Sadık will fix you.”

Ivan looked down as best he could. Turkey had his hands buried in his guts, arms bloody halfway up to the elbows.

He had the sudden feeling he probably should have died already.

Sadık noticed him watching, and smiled a little at him.

“Don’t mind me, kid, I’m just stitching your intestines back together down here. Nothin’ too serious, just helping everything to get lined up right. I’ll be sewing your skin closed for you at the end, too. There’ll be a bit more of the alcohol, but then you’ll be done; and maybe I’ll even give you a lollipop at the end, huh?”

Ivan realized he was cold.

“Katyusha, I’m cold,” he told his sister. Somehow, he couldn’t make the words come out very loudly.

“I’m sorry, Vanya. I’ll have the heat in your rooms turned up when we take you back there.”

Russia sighed and closed his eyes. It felt so good where she was stroking his face.

“Tired,” he managed to say, almost slurring his words. “Cold’n tired.”

“Go to sleep,” Ukraine urged him gently. “When you wake up, everything will be okay.”

“Hmmm…”

He wanted to believe it. It sounded nice.

“Katyusha?”

“Yes, Vanya?”

“Sing to me?”

Her hand paused for a moment, but then he heard her.

“ _Spi, mladenec moj prekrasnyj, Bajushki-baju; Tiho smotrit mesjac jasnyj v kolybel' tvoju-_ ”

Ivan felt himself starting to drift off into the darkness behind his eyes.

“- _Stanu skazyvat' ja skazki, pesenku spoju-_ ”

Russia died, and Ukraine kept singing.

“- _ty zh dremli, zakryvshi glazki, Bajushki-baju_.”

* * *

 Zell and Miervaldis burst into the main hall on their floor and ran for the elevator. Miervaldis reached it first and punched the button frantically. It didn’t even light up.

“Stairs,” Zell said, shoving the door open. “Explosion. Fire hazard. No elevators.”

They pounded down the stairs instead, and exited onto the ground floor a minute later.

There were people everywhere, streaming both ways down the hallway. Zell tried to push her way into the crowd, but a Peacekeeper appeared suddenly, blocking her way.

“Please stay out of the hallway, ma’am,” he said. “We need to clear the area for the emergency crews.”

She tried to push her way past him, eyes fixed on the doors of the General Assembly, just barely in sight at the end of the hallway.

“But-”

“Please, ma’am, we’ll be updating everyone on the situation when we know more about what happened.”

“Zell-” Miervaldis said, grabbing her arm.

“But-”

“Zell, if Pavel’s hurt- if _any_ of them are hurt, it’s better that we let the paramedics get to them instead of running down there ourselves.”

He pulled her back into the stairwell, away from the Peacekeeper, and closed the door to the hallway.

She looked at him, expression fearful.

“Mier-”

He sat down on the landing, against the wall. Zell gave into his tug on her sleeve to sit down next to him.

“Our parents have lived a long time, right? Didn’t they ever tell you war stories or something? They’ve survived stuff like this-”

 _“How are you so calm?”_ she demanded, hugging her legs to her chest.

“I’m _not_ calm,” he replied. “I’m _absolutely_ not calm, I’m just panicking quietly on the inside.”

“I-”

“Pavel would have been with Mr. Braginski, right? He wouldn’t let him get hurt.”

Zell shivered and clutched her legs tighter.

“What if-”

“Look, we can’t _do_ anything about it, okay? We can sit here and see if anyone comes out, but-”

Suddenly, the only thing Zell wanted (more than to see her parents, or her friend) was to hear her husband’s voice.

“I-” her throat stuck for a moment, too dry. “I’m going to call Rémy. He- he should know what happened, even if he doesn’t talk to his father anymore-”

Her hands were shaking, but she managed to pull her phone out and hit the right button to call him. She cradled the phone between her ear and shoulder and leaned into Miervaldis, who responded to her wordless plea by putting his arm around her shoulder.

Rémy picked up immediately.

“Zell, isn’t it like ten in the morning over there-”

She swallowed to make sure her throat would work properly this time, and interrupted him shakily.

“The General Assembly blew up.”

“What?”

A heartbeat.

“God, Zell, are you-”

“T-They won’t let us near it,” she stuttered, trying not to cry too much. “I- I don’t know if _Vati_ and _Babbo_ and- and-”

“They’re tough, Zell.”

“But _Pavel_ was supposed to be in there! Wh-What if they’re _hurt_ or-or if they got caught in the blast and l- _lost_ something; what if they _died-_ ”

“Then they’ll come back-”

“I _know_ but I still don’t want them to _die!_ ” she exclaimed, trying to scrub the tears off her face. “And Pavel can’t _do_ that- what if _he_ dies, or he ends up like János?”

“I… I don’t know, Zell. I guess we’ll just have to figure it out.”

There was a bit of noise from the other end of the line.

“Zell, I’m still listening if you want to keep talking but I’m going to use the other phone to call people-”

“That’s a good idea,” Miervaldis murmured. He could hear the other end of the conversation from their position.

“Wait, wait,” Zell said quickly, an idea forming. “Mier, you’ve got your phone on you, right?”

“I- yes-”

“Good. Then _you_ call Cato and Hal and Lucas and everyone, if you don’t have the numbers I’ll give them to you; and then _R_ _émy_ can try calling _Vati_ and them since _he_ has their cell numbers-”

“I like this plan,” Rémy said, “Thank God for the EU phone list. Okay, I’m trying Austria now- Zell, can Mier try János? That way if we get both of them we can do a relay or something.”

“Zell, I don’t have his number-”

* * *

 Pavel jolted awake to a scream, and darkness.

Not _complete_ darkness, he noticed after a moment. There was light that was leaking through from somewhere, but it was still mostly dark and stuffy and dusty and it was hard to _breath_ and he _couldn’t move-_

 _“Hey!”_ he called, struggling against whatever was pinning him down. “Hey! _Help!_ _Pomogite!_ _Pagalba!_ ”

It was dark and his lungs were seizing up between the pressure on them and the thick dust clogging the air and he did _not_ want to die-

 _“Pagalba!”_ he tried again; and no one answered.

No one was coming, the bomb had gotten them all and they were dead or they were all stuck like he was-

He could hear things moving above him, and the tiny bit of light he did have shifted.

“Pavel!”

Pavel took a shuddering breath.

“ _T_ - _Tėvas_?”

“Pavel-” he sounded immensely relieved. “Pavel just, just give me a moment-”

Something shifted, and then the pressure on his chest got _so_ much worse. Pavel tried to say something, or scream, but all he managed was a strangled sort of sob-gasp and a feeble thrash.

“Don’t fucking _touch_ that! Hold this up-”

And then the pressure went away completely, and he took as many breaths of the stale air as he could, just in case-

There was more shifting, closer now but in a different direction, and suddenly there was a lot of light from whichever way his head was pointing.

The air got much clearer all of a sudden. There were hands under his arms, and someone pulled him out from under the debris.

 _“Ačiū,”_ he gasped. The light was way too strong and his vision was completely blurry and he had no idea who had just pulled him out, but surely it wasn’t possible to be more grateful than this, _ever-_

_“Ačiū; ačiū ačiū-”_

“Yeah, yeah,” his rescuer said. Pavel thought that he must be pulling him upright because the vague blotches that his vision had become were moving the right way for that, but his sense of direction was all over the place and it felt like he was going to be sick.

One of the blotches suddenly got very big. There was something moving, but he couldn’t make out what and it was giving him a splitting headache trying to figure it out-

“Shit, he’s got a fucking concussion-”

Then there were arms around him and everything smelled strongly of high-proof alcohol.

“Pavel? Pavel, talk to me; your head is all bloody-”

“ _T_ - _Tėvas_?” he asked. “I can’t- I can’t see anything-”

“ _Oh no, **please** God_-”

“It’s because he’s got that fucking _concussion;_ calm the hell _down_ , Lithuania!”

“ _Tėvas_?” Pavel asked groggily. “Who’s that?”

“ _Neapolis_ ; it’s _Neapolis_ \- Pavel, we’re going to get up-”

The world spun again and Pavel was pretty sure he _did_ throw up this time but it was hard to really tell because everything wouldn’t stop moving wrong; and surely he wasn’t _really_ falling upwards?

“You are not going fucking _anywhere_ with him,” he heard Romano say. “ _He’s_ got a damn concussion and _you’re_ drunk as hell and neither of you can walk worth _shit._ Sit him back down and give me that damn alcohol; the Turkish bastard needs it to do his surgery.”

“ _Russia’s_ not getting _any_ help from m-”

Pavel wasn’t really sure what happened next, because he was too busy possibly flying sideways but more likely falling, since it seemed like he’d hit the floor again and _God;_ _everything_ _hurts-_

Someone sat him up again, slowly, and this time it didn’t seem _quite_ so bad even though he was still incredibly dizzy at the end.

“ _Tėvas_?” he managed to say.

“He’ll be fine when he wakes up,” Romano told him. “Fucking bastard, showing up drunk to a speech by the _Pope-_ it’s fucking _disrespectful_ is what it is-”

“Some-Someone screamed-”

“Don’t worry about it. Just don’t move and don’t you fucking _dare_ close your eyes; I’m going to send somebody over here to get you. The medics just showed up. About fucking _time._ ”

* * *

 Poland was in the middle of a dramatic retelling of his occupation of Moscow when his cell phone went off, muffled by something.

Feliks quickly checked his pockets with his good hand.

“Shoot. I like, left it in my briefcase-”

Teodozja got up to get it, leaving Roksana with her great-grandfather (that was going to take a lot of getting used to. _So_ much getting used to) so she could talk on the phone unhindered.

The phone was on something like its fifth ring when she picked it up, squatting in the hallway next to Poland’s open briefcase.

“Hello?”

“ _Polen_?” the man on the other end asked, sounding slightly panicked.

“No; this is Teodozja Pakulski-”

The man said something under his breath that might have been _‘Ach Gott’_ , but it was too indistinct to really hear. He switched to badly-pronounced Polish.

“Well, is he all right?”

Teodozja wasn’t really sure _why_ the man would ask that, but he had clearly called expecting Poland, so-

“He’s broken his wrist,” she explained. “And his legs have been torn up; but I fixed him as best I could and he said he would be all right-”

“ _Dankeschön_ , _Gott_ \- what about the others?”

“Others?” Dosia asked, confused.

“Germany, Italy, France, England, Russia-”

“There- There’s no one else here-”

 _“Was?”_ he demanded, seeming to momentarily forget his Polish. “ _Was bedeuten Sie_?”

Dosia struggled for a few moments to remember what German she’d learned already. It had been awhile-

“Um- _Wer ist dies_?” she settled for, unable to formulate a proper reply to the man’s question in German and not wanting to strain his clearly-limited grasp of Polish.

“Rémy Beilschmidt- can I speak to Poland?”

“Uh- one second.”

She covered the mouthpiece of the phone.

“Mr. Łukasiewicz! It’s someone called Rémy Beilschmidt!”

“Tell him that I like, already have the stuff for next meeting!” he called back from the living room.

“He already has his things for the next meeting,” Dosia told Rémy dutifully.

“That’s not what I’m calling about!” he exclaimed. “Are you his secretary or something?”

“Um, no, I’m- I live at his house.”

Rémy was silent for a moment.

“His _house?_ ”

“Yes…”

“So he’s _not_ at the UN-”

“He never made it to the airport. He- uh- he got hit by a car right after he left the driveway.”

“With a _car?_ ”

“ _Ja_.”

“ _Dieu_ …”

“Um, Mr. Beilschmidt?” Dosia asked after a few moments. “Are you all right? What happened? You thought he was at the UN but you knew he was hurt anyway-”

“Someone bombed the General Assembly.”

Dosia gasped loudly.

“Dosia?” Poland called. “What is it?”

“But- But the _Pope_ was there!” she exclaimed.

“Terrorists tend not to care about that sort of thing,” Rémy told her. “I- I need to call Portugal and see if I can reach her, but if anyone –any other Nation- calls, can you or Mr. Łukasiewicz call me about it? Poland should have my number-”

“Yes- Yes, I don’t see why we couldn’t,” Teodozja answered, still shaken by the news.

“Good. Thank you. Goodbye.”

* * *

 Somehow, Heinrich wasn’t exactly sure how, he and Adriana ended up with coffee and tiny cakes in a café somewhere near the University of Hohenheim after the meeting let out.

“You are _really_ Venetian,” Adriana said. “I’m not actually sure what you just said, because I think most of it was _Venexiàn_.”

“Oh,” Heinrich said, mentally going back over the conversation. Yes, he had slipped into Venexiàn from Standard Italian out of force of habit. “Sorry.”

“Is your father a separatist, or something?” she asked. “Because you’re conversationally fluent, and the only people who are any longer are the kids of the separatists who brought them up speaking it.”

“Uh-” Oh no, how was he supposed to explain this. “No, _he_ grew up with it-”

Not a lie.

“-so we all learned it.”

Adriana frowned slightly.

“ _Where_ does your father’s family live again?”

“I-uh… I hadn’t said yet,” Heinrich told her. “San Marco.”

She stared at him for a moment, then snorted in laughter.

“You’re _kidding_ me.”

“No!” he protested, feeling his face heat up, irrationally embarrassed by his admission.

“You live in _tourist_ Venice!” she exclaimed, clearly amused to no end.

“It’s not my fault that’s where the family house is!”

“Oooh, the _‘family house’_ ,” Adriana teased. “What, are you a patrician family? Badoer? Morosini? Foscari?”

 _“Costa,”_ Heinrich told her, trying and failing not to return her smile.

She fell silent and narrowed her eyes at him.

“The Paces have been in Venice, a long, long time, Heinrich,” she told him, humor gone. “We weren’t _government_ important, but- _Costa?_ In _San Marco?_ ”

And Heinrich was pretty sure that all of tonight, despite the people in the meeting holding up to Elke’s promise, had not been a good idea.

* * *

 Feliciano looked up as the paramedics rushed into the room.

“Cristoforo?” he asked the man he was holding. “I’m going to go talk to the doctors, okay? Gilbert and Antonio and Benedicta are still here though so you’ll be all right, won’t you?”

Cristoforo didn’t give any indication of hearing him, still starting glassy-eyed at the man on the floor. He hadn’t screamed again and that was something at least even if Feliciano didn’t like the look in his little brother’s eyes at _all-_

Malta reached over and took the Vatican’s hand.

“Go on, Feli,” Gilbert told him quietly. “Before the medics do something stupid.”

He nodded and sprang up, dashing over to the emergency response team. A few of them were headed straight for Russia; and they couldn’t have _that!_

“What are you _doing?_ ” one the medics demanded, grabbing Turkey, who was bloody up to elbows now and still had his hands buried in Russia’s guts. “You can’t just _treat_ someone like that-”

Veneziano took a quick glance at Turkey’s handiwork. It looked pretty good to him.

“Hey, hey, leave him alone!” he exclaimed, grabbing Angry Medic’s arm and pulling her off Turkey. “He knows what he’s doing and I’m pretty sure Ivan’s dead already but he should be fine by dinner so don’t worry about it-”

“I am _very_ certain that man is not a doctor and-”

“Russia will be _fine_ come _on_ don’t try and treat Nations we can do it ourselves and most of what you’d do would be _useless_ anyway you shouldn’t waste your resources and _you’ve got to come save the Pope **you’re wasting time!**_ ”

Feliciano dragged Angry Medic towards Cristoforo and the others, grateful when the rest of her group followed them. Turkey did not need any distractions; and His Holiness needed all the help he could get.

“Kit. Kit; c’mon, we’ve got to move,” he heard Gilbert say as they approached.

Cristoforo clung to him.

“Gi-G-Gilb-”

“Yeah; yeah I know. He’s hurt bad but the medics can make him better. Let’s go pray over _there,_ okay? Toño’ll come with us. He’s calming, _ja_? He’ll help you feel better.”

Feliciano hovered for a few moments while the paramedics sorted themselves out before dashing off to keep them from taking Lithuania away- Romano was already over there but he didn’t want to subject the poor emergency workers to his brother’s temper. They worked really hard; they should deal with nice people!

Eventually the paramedics got the idea and carried Pavel off instead; and then he was over on the other end of the room trying to convince Angry Medic #2-now _there_ was someone who needed to deal with more nice people!- that the Netherlands would be _perfectly fine_ in a couple hours, no really; and that _no_ Belgium and Luxembourg were _not_ doctors and _yes_ they were relatives but they could deal with the way his spine was bending _all on their own_ and oh _look,_ that’s the Latvian Delegate _on the floor_ there go help him pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease _please-_

He lost track of things for a while and somehow ended up back over by where he’d started.

“Ummm- you don’t look so good,” he told the Russian President.

“He’s _dead,_ ” the man said, sounding slightly horrified.

Veneziano glanced over at where Russia was still lying. It looked like Turkey had just finished his surgery because he’d put everything back in the kit and was using someone’s ruined suit jacket to clean his hands off.

“Only for a little bit!” he reassured Russia’s boss.

“He- He was alive and then they- Turkey just stuck his hands in and started- America wasn’t even-”

The man didn’t seem to be able to finish a sentence, and Feliciano pitied him a bit.

“Well we’re kind of used to it!” he said, attempting to explain. “I mean we’ve lived a long long time and when you do that you tend to die a lot, especially you fight as much as people used to so it’s kind of not that much of a big deal anymore even though it’s dying and that’s _always_ a big deal-”

 _Prezident_ Luka Pajari did not look at all reassured, so Feliciano tried to refocus slightly.

“Anyway he should be awake and ready to do things by dinner and he might be really hungry but you probably shouldn’t let him have much of anything besides soup for a day or two, just in case because you _really_ don’t want him to burst his intestines because that would be _disgusting_ and also it smells really icky.”

Now he looked like he was going to throw up. This was not good.

“I’m trying to say he’ll be okay! He’ll be fine; after you get hurt enough times it’s kinda just like ‘Oh, I remember that little green squiggly bit from last time, I wonder what it’s called I should find out someday’-”

“So you- people have to deal with your intestines- spilling out a lot?” the _Prezident_ asked faintly.

Oh good, he was talking!

“Umm… well some of us maybe? I don’t know how often this happens to Russia but I heard his heart fell out once and that’s _really_ strange, there’s some things about us we don’t really understand, like _Prussia;_ but anyway the thing with the little green squiggly bit was more like an example; I think usually people died from getting stabbed and shot but mostly I remember drowning. And getting poisoned.”

“Drowning and _poisoned?_ ”

“Well I was a marine trading empire! All of my wars were pretty much on ships so people tended to die by drowning but now that I think about it a bit more a lot of times they’d been shot or stabbed _before_ they fell in the water, so maybe it is kind of the same? Usually I just drowned because I really little and it was harder for me to get shot when everybody else was so much taller and usually people don’t swing their swords down around their waist or ankles.”

A look of terrible comprehension dawned across the _Prezident_ ’s face, and Feliciano felt that _maybe_ this was a bad thing to be talking about, but Russia’s boss needed a distraction from Ivan’s condition and he had really gotten into the pace of things and had already passed the point where his mouth started running away with him.

“You- you were fighting when you were still a _child?_ ”

“Well I was still child- _sized_ when that was going on, but yeah I fought when I was really young too, all of us did! The poisoning I _know_ was different from everybody though, that was kind of an Italian thing and also kind of a personal thing because somebody used to get poisoned pretty much whenever we had dinner together and sometimes even when we hadn’t seen each other in a long time…”

“Who is this _‘we’_?” the _Prezident_ asked, and now Feliciano was pretty sure he was still listening only because it was so fascinatingly horrifying, like a car accident.

“Me and Florence and Genoa and Amalfi and Savoy and Lombardy –Milan- and a bunch of the others- you know cyanide tastes like almonds? You can put it in chocolates or pastries and if it has nuts in it you’d never notice and cyanide salt looks pretty much exactly like sugar and arsenic is really easy to dissolve in water and if you get poisoned by it’s _exactly_ like getting cholera, but Nations don’t get sick like that except when there’s epidemics so I could almost always tell when that had happened to me, but you could never really tell if you had thallium poisoning because it doesn’t really taste like anything and it worked really well and mercuric cyanide is _terrible_ -”

“Veneziano, _what the fucking hell_ do you think you’re _doing?!_ ”

He flinched a little at his brother’s voice.

“Uhmmm… distracting Russia’s boss from remembering he saw his intestines everywhere?”

“You’re fucking _traumatizing_ him, is what you’re doing! And don’t talk about that shit like you’re all fucking innocent; I _know_ why Genoa kept dying!”

“ _Fratello_ -”

“There’s a _reason_ you’re so good at cooking and baking! _You had a lot of practice!_ ”

“ _Ma Genova ha rifiutato di arretra_ -”

_“Ciò non è alcuna ragione!”_

Luka Pajari would never again be so grateful that he’d never learned a word of Italian.

“Anyway, Genoa was a real bit- _Ohmy_ God ** _Ludwig_** _howlonghaveyoubeenstandingthere?!_ ”

“You cook all my food,” he said, his voice sounding wrong. He seemed to have forgotten he was still holding Südtirol, who was looking at them all curiously.

 _This was_ really _a bad idea._

“Nonono _no_ Ludwig I _love_ you; I promise I’ve never tried to poison you!” he cried, tackle-hugging Germany in attempt to keep him from panicking or pushing him away or, oh God, walking off-

“Feliciano, I’m pretty sure the whole room heard that,” he replied, voice sounding strangled.

There _was_ a distinctly odd feeling in the air, now that he tried to notice it. And one of the angry paramedics was staring at him like he was insane.

“Lud- Ludovico, _please_ are you mad at me for not telling you? _Please_ don’t be mad, please please _please-_ ”

“Fe- _Spatzi_ ,” Ludwig interrupted him. “I don’t think- It’s unset- _I am_ not _mad._ Just _please-_ when was the last time?”

“Ve- Lud-” Veneziano said, looking up at him.

“ _When was the last time,_ Feliciano?”

Feliciano pulled him down to whisper in his ear.

“1866?”

There was a silence that told him this wasn’t quite enough.

“It was Austria,” he admitted, still whispering. “Venice was the last part of Italy that he still had and we were trying to unite the country! Only please don’t tell him I don’t think he knows.”

Germany sighed heavily, through his nose.

“We’re leaving,” he said firmly, taking his arm.

“Lud-”

“ _Now,_ Feliciano.”

He pulled Veneziano out of the room and into the hallway.

“Sir, the building has been quarantined,” a Peacekeeper told Germany as he exited. “You won’t-”

“We are not going to leave the building. We’re just going upstairs.”

They avoided the other Peacekeepers and the paramedics and the UN staff that managed to stay in the hallway, getting a few odd looks because of the unfamiliar girl cradled against Ludwig’s chest.

Feliciano was starting to really worry when they reached the door to the stairs. Ludwig hadn’t said anything to him and usually he’d be talking by now and he had that super-serious look on his face that he hadn’t seen in a while that usually meant he’d done something wrong-

-but then Ludwig pushed the doors to the stairs open and then shoved him back against it and kissed him, and everything was okay again.

“Lud-” Feliciano started to whisper against his lips.

_“Vati!”_

Germany broke away and Veneziano smiled. Ludwig blushed even when it was his own children!

He did seem to be having some trouble trying to stay close to him and hold Südtirol _and_ give Zell the hug she clearly desperately wanted, so Feliciano took care of it for him and wrapped his arms around his daughter.

“Zell! Were you worried about us?”

 _“Of course I was worried about you!”_ she burst out. There were tear tracks on her face. “There was a _bomb_ and the Peacekeepers wouldn’t let us-”

 _‘Us’_? he thought, and then noticed Miervaldis in the corner, Zell’s dropped phone in hand, ending whatever conversation she’d been having.

But now his daughter was crying, and Ludwig had somehow managed to accomplish all three of his tasks at once, and there were better places to be doing this, so Feliciano kissed everyone in reach and suggested that they all move to the couches in Zell’s department office, because it was a nice big space and eventually everyone else would leave the Assembly room and after things like this they all tended to drift into each other’s company.

* * *

 Gilbert flopped over the end of one of the couches in the Department of Nations’ Affairs and flipped his phone open. Cristoforo had left for the hospital with the Pope when the paramedics took him away, and Lovino had gone with him without telling anyone else, thereby _completely_ robbing the people who _would_ have liked to hang around and comfort their (completely platonic) friend of any opportunity for support.

Most of the rest of the Nations were in the room as well, Antonio looking a bit forlorn at the absence of his love, Belgium biting her nails and worrying over her brother, who was back in his room, and everyone being generally more subdued than usual. Lithuania had woken up a little and hadn’t started looking for alcohol yet, but with the way he’d been it was only a matter of time.

Ludwig and Feliciano were huddled together on the couch opposite his, Südtirol snuggled comfortably in between them-

_Damn they look cute._

-and his brother shot him a glare that clearly said _‘Just what do you think you’re doing, playing on your phone at a time like this?’_ ; but Gilbert ignored it. He was doing important things.

He opened the Internet up and went straight to the sight for a private chatroom.

Prussia entered a username- just ‘Gilbert Beilschmidt, KP’, nothing fancy- and a password. His newly-created chatroom opened, and he quickly typed in a message.

_‘In your base.’_

An instant later, another icon popped up on the sidebar indicating someone else had joined the chat- a ‘Donner von Maskinsjälen, RL’.

Gilbert smirked a bit at that.

_‘Told you you’d keep it.’_

_‘How incredibly like you, Prussia,’_ came the reply, fast as a thought. _‘But really? Donner von Maskinsjälen?’_

_‘It fits you! C’mon, admit it.’_

_‘Never. What do you want?’_

Gilbert started typing again. He was halfway through _‘You know how the UN blew up like half an hour ago?’_ when his chatmate posted again.

_‘I already know the UN blew up. What about it?’_

Prussia quickly erased everything he’d written.

_‘You realize how annoying it is when you do that? You could let me finish a sentence.’_

_‘The point, Prussia.’_

_‘You got anything on who did it? Anybody said anything to the press?’_

He waited a few minutes, idly watching Lithuania slowly realize that he had become a drunkard, but currently had no drink.

His phone pinged all on its own, dragging his attention back to the chat room.

_‘Stay focused, Prussia. And yes, I did happen to find who’s claiming responsibility just now.’_

Gilbert raised an eyebrow.

_‘So?’_

There was an uncharacteristically long wait time- nearly fifteen seconds.

_‘You won’t like it.’_

_‘There’s a lot of shit I don’t like. Hit me.’_

_‘I got this off an encrypted, locked forum with way too many filesharing links. It was the граждан на свободный кыониг.’_

Prussia squinted at the Cyrillic text.

_‘Don- romanization?’_

_‘The_ Citizensfor a Free Kyonig _.’_

Gilbert was- he was-

He didn’t know _what_ he was; but it wasn’t happy.

_‘I told you you wouldn’t like it, Gilbert.’_

_‘Don’t go all ‘I am a psychic computer’ on me, Don.’_

_‘I’ve never done that.’_

_‘You kind of sounded just like that there.’_

_‘Well, I didn’t mean it.’_

There were a few moments when neither of them posted anything.

 _‘You owe me more hard drive space,’_ Donner von Maskinsjälen said eventually.

 _‘Yeah, I know,’_ Gilbert replied. _‘How much?’_

_‘2 TB. By this time next week. It had better be there when I log onto your IP address.’_

He thought briefly of the complicated mess of external hard drives he had wired up to an old laptop hidden in the basement of the house he shared with his brother. After all these years, it was starting to resemble its own supercomputer.

_‘Damn, Ladonia, what the hell are you doing down there?’_

_‘None of your business.’_

_‘You know my brother is going to find your little hideaway sometime.’_

_‘So tell him.’_

This was the part where Gilbert always hesitated. He had next-to-nothing to his name- he’d long given up on the pretense that anyone but Germany ran the household; that _he_ owned the house now. There were a few things he could still claim, and nearly all of them were family ties of some sort.

But this was a secret; and secrets were power. They were knowledge, and this secret knowledge fed him a steady stream of yet more knowledge (some of it also secret); and if there was one thing Prussia did _not_ do, it was give up on a position of power.

 _‘Nah, he’ll just have to deal with the shock on his own,’_ he typed back. _‘No worries. You’ll get your ‘house extension’ as soon as I can find a tech store in Germany with a big enough inventory.’_

 _‘Before you go-’_ Ladonia typed back.

_'When did I ever imply I was leaving? It’s really fucking boring here right now.’_

_'This is a freebie, Gilbert. I found something worrying on a social networking site, in the private messages.’_

_‘Yeah? That’s not new, people are stupid all the time on those things.’_

_‘This one is from Lithuania’s grandson. Rozete’s son, Stasis, you remember them?’_

_‘They’re kind of hard to forget, Don; the only thing Lithuania ever seems to talk about is his kids and how Russia’s secretly fucking the world over.’_

_‘Stasis Garrison wrote: My grandfather is crazy. He was here earlier and my mom got hurt but she said we couldn’t do anything about it.’_

Prussia inhaled sharply and glared at Lithuania, who had woken up enough from his earlier Romano-induced stupor to start actively looking for more alcohol. Zell was trying to tell him off, but it wasn’t working very well- he’d be raiding the on-site kitchens soon.

 _‘Don, I seriously owe you one,’_ he typed quickly. _‘How about I don’t bother you for another military simulation on that MMORPG for a few weeks?’_

_'That’s my only outlet for socialization, you know.’_

Gilbert sympathized. They were two outcasts as far as Nations went, even if it wasn’t really anyone’s conscious attempt. Prussia was a Nation torn from his land and people and Ladonia was a Nation who’d never _had_ a land and his people had all died or drifted away, as those on the Internet were wont to do- although Gilbert had his suspicions about who Ladonia’s _new_ people were.

_‘I’ll think of something else then. Seriously, thanks. Enjoy your counter-hacking.’_

He signed off and stood up, tucking his phone back in his pocket.

“This is a pathetic way to spend an afternoon in New York,” he announced.

“Gilbert, we’re not supposed to leave the building,” his brother admonished him.

“So? Kit and Romano did!”

“ _Bruder_ , they went to the hospital-”

“Pff. I’m bored. You going to stop me?”

Germany made no move to get up from the couch.

“Thought so. Be back for dinner.”

* * *

 Arthur poured himself some more tea and regarded his daughter, sitting across the little table in another one of his parlor chairs.

 _I never thought I’d have her this close,_ he thought to himself. The feeling was dangerously heady. _But I could wish for better circumstances._

Oh yes, that seducing French bastard was going to _pay_ for this one- and it sounded distinctly odd to his mental ears not to be thinking that about France.

 _‘Mr. Fox’ is_ not _getting away this. It’s_ my _family he decided to mess with this time!_

He didn’t even have to work that hard to figure out what the man had done with his granddaughter, either. There was only one real option for someone like him, and it wasn’t even that difficult to get to where he must have taken her. Especially for a Nation.

Especially for a Nation with _knowledge._

The phone rang, and he politely excused himself to go answer it.

“Kir-”

“England, you fucking lazy-arse slacking bastard! _Reardon nearly died!_ ”

Arthur was quite nonplussed.

“Gilroy, what in the King’s name are you tal-”

“Where _were_ you today, huh? _Where were you_ when my darling was _two_ fucking meters from getting _blown to bits!_ ”

“Ireland,” he hissed, lowering his voice so there was no chance of Irene overhearing. “ _What the bloody hell_ do you mean?”

“Some shite hawk from the Russian delegation blew up the General Assembly!”

England froze.

“From the _delegation?_ ”

“That’s what I bloody well _said!_ You’d better have a _fucking good reason_ for not showing up-”

“Gilroy, I have _things_ to be attending to-”

“ _Yeah?_ Well you can shove those fucking ‘ _things_ ’ righ-”

“There’s nothing I can do about this but suggest that we threaten our diplomatic relations with him, and that’s not bloody likely to do anything! As long as Reardon is all right-”

“He almost fucking _wasn’t,_ you bloody _Tan_ -”

“I’m hanging up on you now, Gilroy.”

He firmly placed the phone back in its cradle and returned to the parlor.

“Well, Ms. Walker, I’m afraid some _things_ have come up that require my attention,” he told his daughter. “But if you could return tonight, we can get started on rescuing your daughter.”

“What- _tonight?_ ” Irene asked, surprised.

“Yes, tonight. There’s no reason to wait around and tonight is perfect,” Arthur told her, gathering up the tea things. “Go home and take all your vacation days, put your mail on hold, pay up your bills- settle all your business.”

“Are we going to be gone long, then?” Irene asked, standing up uncertainly.

“I don’t know,” he replied honestly. “It could be just tonight, or we could be back next century.”

“A _cen-_ ”

“Don’t worry about your job or your house- I can take of that. Just come back here tonight. Around eleven or so should be perfect.”

“What-” Irene looked ill at ease. “What should I pack?”

“Don’t pack anything,” England said, placing the tea things on his hall table and escorting her to the door. “Come back just as you are. Now get going; and try not to run into any of the little begging children playing make-believe.”

* * *

Russia came back to consciousness slowly, blinking wearily at the plain ceiling of his room in the UN complex.

He grunted softly and tried to shift- the pain in his abdomen had lessened quite a bit, but moving still pulled uncomfortably at the injury.

Ivan realized there was something in his hand, and he brought it up, able to move his arms now.

The lights in the room filtered through the semi-transparent, sugary crystallization of a cherry lollipop.

_‘Maybe I’ll even give you a lollipop at the end, huh?’_

Ivan chuckled. He’d have to remember to thank Sadık somehow, for everything.

“ _Rossiya_?”

Ivan took a deep breath and let it out slowly before turning his head. His boss was seated in his desk chair, watching him worriedly.

“How is Pavel?” he asked quietly.

“He had to go to the hospital,” Luka Pajari said. “I was told he had a bad concussion and some cracked ribs; but should recover with rest.”

“That’s good,” he murmured. “How did I get up here?”

“Turkey had America and Canada carry you,” Luka Pajari said. “Ukraine helped.”

Russia started to pull himself into a sitting position.

_“Rossiya-!”_

“If I do not start moving, the muscles will seize up,” Ivan told him, hissing a bit from the pain. “It is good to get them working again as soon as possible.”

His suit jacket and the shirt he’d been wearing this morning were gone, unsurprisingly; someone, probably Ukraine, had put a new shirt on him, but left it unbuttoned. Russia touched his stomach gingerly- everything was extremely sore, but Turkey’s stitching to draw his muscle and skin back together was small and tight. From the way he was feeling, he might be able to pull out the thread tomorrow morning, though he might wait until after lunch to be on the safe side.

“So,” Ivan grunted. “You are here to have our meeting, _da_? Let us get started.”

“But-”

“There are worse ways to die than having your stomach ripped open, Luka,” Russia half-snapped. “And many worse things to recover from. We have this meeting scheduled, and I am not up to walking yet, _and_ I do not much want to have it. My temper will be greatly improved if we can get this over with, _da_?”

“I-” _Prezident_ Pajari looked conflicted still, but he gave in. “Very well. If you really want to.”

“I do not; but I have done many things I did not want to and I have found that it is better to do them quickly and as soon as possible.”

The _Prezident_ didn’t reply to that, but pulled out a list that was likely an exact copy of the one Pavel had handed Russia in the car that morning.

“There are a lot of regions that don’t seem to want to be a part of the Federation anymore.”

“Thirty-one of eighty-two,” Russia remembered.

“Yes.”

“So, what are your ideas, Luka?”

His boss shifted in the chair slightly.

“We should let most of them go.”

 _“NO!”_ Russia yelled, outraged and stunned.

He _couldn’t_ lose his people, his land-

The _Prezident_ flinched slightly at his Nation’s angry outburst, but fixed him with a look.

“Yes. If we _don’t_ let them go, there will be fighting. We’ll have Russians fighting Russians in battles we can’t afford, and violence always leads to radicalization. The world will be watching, and if we fight they’ll cast us as aggressors and oppressors.”

“You always fight to keep your people!” Ivan snarled. “You _cannot l_ et a few groups of dissidents tear apart a country! The government is stronger than that-”

“The government is _strong_ enough to realize which choice is the better one and _make_ it,” _Prezident_ Pajari said firmly. “So that Russia is not torn apart-”

“I am the biggest country in the world!” Ivan reminded his boss. “I am a great power! You would let that go without a fight?”

“The greatest, worst atrocities in history have been for someone’s fight to keep power,” Luka said. “All the genocides and mass murders and prison camps and death squads-”

“ _Maniacs!_ Maniacs; all of them, with destructive ideals and twisted purposes-”

“And what will the world say about Russia if we shoot everyone who disagrees with us?” Luka challenged. “If we fight and _lose?_ ”

Ivan’s words died in his throat for a moment before he managed to find new ones.

“If we fight and lose then they will see that we _tried!_ That we did not just _give up!_ You would throw away my people’s power and reputation for simple _fear-_ ”

“I am trying to _fix_ your reputation!” the _Prezident_ yelled, slamming his fist down on Ivan’s desk.

The room was silent for a moment.

 _Prezident_ Pajari ran a hand through his short, slightly-thinning hair.

“I am trying to make a new one for you,” he said, calmer and quieter. “For _Russia._ One that doesn’t cast you – _us_ \- in the eyes of the world as totalitarian brutes who grasp for power and indiscriminately crush their supposed ‘enemies’ at the merest pretense. I am trying to make a Russia that the world will see as a true _leader,_ not just a great power- a Russia that other countries to turn to in their times of crisis for help without fear or suspicion; a Russia that they can look up to in times of peace as an example of just governing and good policy. A Russia that can be a partner and a valued friend.”

Ivan took a shuddering breath and closed his eyes.

It was a good vision.

It was a dream he’d heard too many variations of; dreams that ended in disaster.

“You would make me America,” he accused quietly, avoiding voicing any of his true fears.

“No,” Pajari told him. “I would just make you better than you are.”

Ivan chuckled bitterly.

“Tell me, Luka- who else has told that to their Nation, and gone on to commit those genocides and build those prison camps? Do you know?”

He didn’t wait for his boss to reply before continuing.

“Fine. Fine; let them go. Ruin my reputation. I suffered long and hard for it; I bled and drew blood, wept and made others weep, starved and starved others, killed and was killed, went through hell and put others through it- and you would destroy that. I cannot stop you. A President, a Prime Minister; Chancellor, King, Emperor- they _own_ their Nation.”

“The _people_ own their Nation,” Pajari said.

“Their country; maybe,” Russia replied. “But their Nation? _Never._ ”

His abdomen twanged with pain as his body started to react to his mental state. Ivan clutched at his wound and doubled over slightly.

“It is a reputation with a terrible history, yes, but my children _died_ for it. But _you,_ you want a new one. So go make me a new one.”

He waved at the door.

“Go on. Get started.”

“ _Rossiya_ -”

 _“Go,”_ Ivan forced out, through the familiar rising bile and bitterness. “Go- but… know that I will _not_ lose Kaliningrad. I will not lose Kaliningrad for _anything._ I _need_ it.”

“Kaliningrad isn’t even-”

“ _GO,_ Luka!” Ivan snarled, then forced himself under control. “Just… go. I will see you at dinner, _da_?”

 _Prezident_ Luka Pajari evidently decided not to press the issue. He got up and left.

Ivan realized he was still clutching the lollipop, and, lacking anything better to do and mindful of the fact that sweet things usually made you feel better, stuck it in his mouth to keep himself from crying too much.

* * *

 Stasis jumped at the knock on the door and dropped the still-unread mail all over the kitchen floor.

“Mom?” he said quietly, unable to the slight tremor out of his voice.

There was another knock.

“Just stay here, Stas,” Roz said, getting up from the kitchen table. There was a slightly-bloody towel still on it from the efforts to clean the blood off her wound and the kitchen cabinets.

“But Mom, what if-”                              

This time the knock was on the doorframe of the kitchen. Stasis spun and stared, stunned, at the red-eyed man in the doorway.

“ _Tēws_ Gilbert!” Roz exclaimed. “You-”

Gilbert swept her up in a hug.

“Yeah, yeah, I finally came to see you,” he said. He felt dampness against the hand on her head and pulled it away to look. It was just water.

“Heard about what happened.”

Roz sniffed.

“He-He _told_ people?”

“Nah,” Gilbert replied, ruffling her hair. “I’ve just got my sources. Sorry for not waiting for the door, but-”

“That’s all right, _Tēws_. Thank you for coming.”

He stepped back and held her shoulders- she tried to hitch them up.

“Roz?” he asked.

“That’s where my bruises are, _Tēws_ ,” she replied quietly.

Gilbert dropped his hands immediately to grab hers instead.

“You want me to hit him for you?” he asked. “I was planning on hitting him _anyway_ for being such a drunk bastard, but if you like I could put a bit more swing-”

“No, _Tēws_ ,” Roz said. “Please don’t. Don’t hit him?”

Gilbert’s mouth twisted in a way that implied he wasn’t going to promise anything on that score.

“Let’s sit, hey?” he suggested, leading her back to the table.

He spent a moment looking at the bloody towel before tossing it into the sink.

“That’s Stasis, right?”

Stasis edged back towards the table, mail clutched in his hand.

“Mom, who’s this?”

“Stas, is your grandfather’s brother,” Roz told him, gesturing to his seat.

Stasis sat back down.

“But I thought _Tēvoci_ Raivis was-”

“I’m his _other_ brother, kid,” Gilbert interrupted him. “The one he doesn’t talk about. I… drifted out of the family.”

“You mean you became Christian and German and spent a good part of your life fighting him,” Roz said.

Gilbert smiled, a bit sheepishly.

“Yeah, that. We get along better now- well, we did before he started drinking.”

“Um- so _who_ are you?” Stasis asked, relaxingly slightly. “I mean, where-”

“I’m Prussia.”

Stasis thought about that for a moment.

“I’ve never heard of it,” he admitted finally. “Where is it?”

Prussia snorted.

“ _American_ education- hasn’t been a Prussian state since World War One. _Used_ to be right where Poland and Kaliningrad and a bunch of Germany is now. Had a bit of Lithuania and Ukraine, too.”

Stasis attempted to imagine that map and failed a little.

“So you’re doing okay then, Roz?” Gilbert continued.

“I- I think I will be.”

“Good.”

He stared hard at the wall for a minute.

“I’ve got some bad news. Pavel’s in the hospital.”

“What?” Roz exclaimed. “Why?”

“He’s got a concussion bad enough that he can barely see anything and can’t keep his balance at all. Cracked some ribs, too.”

“How-”

Gilbert looked at her, surprised.

“You didn’t hear? Some Russian separatist blew up the General Assembly.”

Roz smothered her gasp with her hands.

“Th- But-”

“What do the Russians have to separate from?” Stasis asked, puzzled.

“They didn’t think of themselves as ‘Russian’,” Prussia muttered, hunching up.

“… _Tēws_?” Roz asked.

“It was for Kön- _Kaliningrad’s_ independence.”

Roz reached out and took his hand.

“I’m sorry, _Tēws_.”

Stasis looked at the both of them for a moment, not sure what was going on, and then got back to looking through the mail. It looked like they actually had a letter.

“Yeah, well-” Gilbert started, brushing her hand off. “I’m more worried about you.”

“I said I’m fine-”

Prussia sat back in his chair.

“Yeah, well, there’s more than just this one UN meeting,” he said. “And I don’t trust Toris with himself right now.”

Roz’s jaw clenched and she looked down at the table.

“You got somewhere else to go?” he continued. “I heard you were having problems paying for this place- and I think it would be a good idea for you to get out of the city. I know it’s unawesome, but…”

“I don’t-”

“Mom?” Stasis asked. “Can we really not afford-”

Roz sighed and nodded, once.

“Oh.”

Stasis fidgeted and held and envelope out.

“‘Cause I think this guy heard about it, too. He’s asking if we want to move into his house because he isn’t going to be using it for a while-”

“What?” his mother demanded. “Who-”

Gilbert leaned over.

“Looks like Lucas. Huh- why’s the kid not need his house anymore?”

Roz opened the letter and read it over, quickly.

“I- I don’t know, it’s not saying-”

Gilbert grabbed the envelope.

“ _‘Kearney, New Jersey’_ \- how far away is that?”

“Jersey’s just the next state over,” Stasis told him.

“Not too far then Roz,” Gilbert said. “Not like you’d be going to- _Chicago_ or something.”

“Who’s Lucas?”

“Lucas is America’s son, Stas,” Roz said, staring at the letter. “This rent-”

“America’s got a son?” he asked, shocked.

“A bunch of us have got kids,” Prussia told him. “We got the opportunity, we took it. Look, Roz, I _really_ think you should take this. I don’t know what’s going to happen with Toris- maybe he won’t come back. Maybe he will. Maybe God will grant him a miracle or something and he’ll develop a sudden severe allergy to alcohol tomorrow. But until he stops doing what he’s doing, I think you should leave. If you don’t like Kearney, then you could move back to the city, get a new place-”

“This rent is- I’ve never _seen_ a rent this low!”

“Well, it’s _his_ house. Maybe it’s all paid up or something.”

Gilbert stood and rolled his shoulders.

“Anyway, seriously think about it, okay? I promised I’d be back at the UN for dinner and I’d like to actually take a walk through New York.”

“You- _want_ to walk through New York?” Stasis asked doubtfully. “At _night?_ ”

Prussia shrugged.

“Yeah, people get in trouble at night in cities they don’t know. But if trouble finds _me,_ I won’t complain. There hasn’t been a good fight in _years._ ”

* * *

Cristoforo stared blankly at the tray of food on the tiny table in front of his chair.

“I know hospital food is shit,” his brother said from somewhere out of his line of sight. “But you’ve got to eat _something._ ”

“I’m not hungry,” he said quietly.

“ _Bullshit._ You’re hungry; that’s just the shock talking and you damn well know it. Eat that crap before it gets cold and tastes even worse.”

Lovino sounded even snappier than usual; so the Vatican decided to humor his brother and pushed the food on his plate around a little.

“ _That doesn’t fucking count,_ _Cittadina_! Don’t make me come over there, dammit!”

“Please stop swearing the presence of His Holiness,” Cristoforo responded automatically; and then remembered the situation he was in. He pressed his hand against his mouth.

He heard Lovino sigh heavily, and a few moments later his eldest living brother was crouched down in front of him, forearms resting on his knees.

“ _Cittadina_ …” he said gently.

“It’s just…” Cristoforo wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. “I- I can _feel_ him dying. H-H-He’s n-not-”

He started sniffling and tears began to fall.

Lovino started to rise and gathered his younger brother in a hug as he did so. Cristoforo stood up with him, hands clutched in the back of his shirt and face buried in his chest.

“ _Dispiaccio_ , Cristino,” Romano murmured into his hair, stroking one of his shoulder blades with a thumb.

They stayed like that for a while, without speaking.

“Shouldn’t you call some people?” Lovino asked eventually, voice quiet, as if loathe to break the silence. “The Camerlengo, the Vicar of Rome?”

The Vatican took a deep shuddering breath.

“Yes, I- I suppose so. He should be in Rome for-”

They both jumped as a ringtone split the air.

Quickly, Romano stuck his hand in his brother’s pocket, pulling out the still ringing phone. He checked the caller ID.

“It’s _Polska_ ,” he said, looking at Cristoforo questioningly.

He unclenched a hand and took the phone, flipping it open and bringing it to his ear. Lovino took the opportunity to hold his brother more tightly.

“ _Salvē_ , _Poloniā_ ,” he said quietly.

“Krzyś, are you like, okay? You _totally_ don’t sound okay. I am _majorly_ sorry I’m not there right now, I like, got hit by my daughter’s car, but I should _totally_ be there with you and I am _so totally majorly sorry_ that I got myself like, stuck on the couch.”

 “Your daughter hit you with her car?” Cristoforo murmured. “I didn’t think she hated you _that_ much, Feliks.”

“It was actually like, a total accident. But we should so totally _not be talking about me_ right now, ‘cause I _know_ you and you are _not okay_ in a major way right now. What’s wrong.”

“Feliks…”

“Krzyś, the Pope didn’t die, did he?”

The Vatican’s next breath was distinctly shaky and wet; and his brother took notice, rubbing soothing circles on his back and squeezing him tighter for a moment.

“By tomorrow morning,” he whispered in reply.

Poland was silent for a long time.

“ _Szkoda_ , _Vaticanus_.”

“ _Agō Grātiās_ , _Poloniā_.”

“So who’s like, with you right now? Gilbert? Benedicta? Feliciano? Lovino? Antonio? Sancha? Basch? Melchiorre? Roderich?”

“Lovino.”

There was some more silence, broken only by the beeping of the heart monitor.

“Y’know, sixteen days from now is Liesl’s wedding,” Feliks said.

“I- I suppose it is. I may have to miss it.”

“We’ll like, totally all miss it with you,” his friend said. “We _totally_ understand, Conclave takes like, a long time usually. We can all come down to Rome and do the regular stuff together.”

“Sit? Pray? Talk quietly?”

“What else do we ever do?” Lovino muttered.

Cristoforo almost smiled.

“While you could all be at a wedding? No, I can’t ask that of you. Especially not Sebastian.”

“Conclave is _important._ ”

“The _Novemdiales_ and the funeral will be long over by then, Feliks. You should be at the party. There’s no reason for all of you to miss it just because of me.”

“Krzyś-”

“Don’t argue with me, _Poloniā_. I appreciate what you are trying to do, but please; just go to the wedding. Those are important too.”

Feliks huffed slightly.

“I am like, totally not sure about this. Seriously not sure.”

“ _No dalej_ , _Polska_. _Tylko zgodzić się z mi_.”

“Agh, you’re like, _totally_ trying to play the _Polski_ card! _Illī etiam possum ludo, Sanctā Sede! De te cūramus et amāmus; et facibimus quisquis facibimus_!”

Cristoforo managed a half-hearted chuckle.

“I know you will, _Polska_.”

There was another ringtone that filled the room.

“Krzyś, do like, have another line calling?” Feliks asked.

“S’mine,” Lovino muttered, and fished his phone out. “Feli’s calling. Vene, _Ciao_ -”

 _“SPAINTALKTOLOVINORIGHTNOW!”_ he heard his brother scream over the pandemonium of pure chaos in the background.

* * *

 Heinrich smiled politely and tried not to look like he was worried.

“Feliciano Costa is my father,” he managed to say.

Adriana stared at him.

 _“Well,”_ she said. “Okay. So who’s your mother then? What German woman was so great that _Venezia_ went haring off with her?”

“Uh,” Heinrich said.

This conversation was not going to get any better.

* * *

 Lithuania was having a terrible day; so he took another drink in the hopes that it would somehow improve.

For something like the- like the- like the incredibly-annoying-something-should-have-fucking-improved-by-now-th time; it didn’t.

It was Officially dinnertime at the UN, which meant something entirely different from just plain dinnertime. Just plain dinnertime meant that it was sometime between the hours of four PM and ten PM, so depending on your own internal schedule and whatever the carefully-plotted charts Estonia and Germany had come up with said was warmest/freshest/most likely to not be completely taken yet at the moment, you should to go have food so you didn’t pass out at some point before breakfast or lunch the next day.

Officially dinnertime meant all the delegates, Nations, and other assorted Very Important People who didn’t have other pressing matters –like being in the hospital- assembled in the massive dining room to enjoy a catered, multiculturally-pleasing-but-unastounding meal to last about three courses.

The Appetizers course was currently in the process of being taken away and had gone without incident, amazingly enough, since people tended to get restless waiting for food and only being able to eat one roll or a bit of salad. The record amount of Nation-caused arguments and problems in the shortest time period had been set during the appetizers.

 _But I guess everyone’s just had enough problems for one day,_ Lithuania thought savagely, attempting his alcohol pick-me-up cure once again under the disapproving eyes of Estonia.

Toris glared back at him and deliberately took another drink, feeling incredibly spiteful and righteously enraged; partially because, as usual, all his problems could be traced back to one thing.

It was _his_ fault that the General Assembly blew up. _His_ fault that his son never spoke to him. _His_ fault that his daughter didn’t see the truth. _His_ fault that no one would do a thing to help Belarus. _His_ fault that his people had to go through years behind the Iron Curtain.

_It was Ivan’s fault that he kept suffering so much._

With that in mind, Toris got up to give the man a piece of his mind.

* * *

 Russia blew on his soup slightly, hoping it would cool down just a tiny fraction so he wouldn’t burn his tongue too badly. He felt bad enough already and didn’t need anything adding to it.

He dipped his spoon into the soup to stir it lightly, and then jumped along with the table as it some of it suddenly slopped over the side.

“This is all _your_ fault.”                                        

He looked up at Lithuania’s angry face, a scant few inches away. His fists were still resting at the point where they’d impacted the table.

“Excuse me?” Ivan asked, determined that he could _attempt_ to be civil, even if he was currently not speaking to his boss and Lithuania was clearly in drunken-anger mode and his country was going to start falling apart tomorrow when Luka’s _‘grand new image restructuring plan’_ came out.

“ _Your_ fault,” Toris repeated, apparently feeling the point needed emphasis. _“All this.”_

Ivan wrinkled in nose in disgust as the man’s hot, alcohol-laden breath hit his face. It had been a long time since his own days of alcoholic ‘self-treatment’; and he’d almost forgotten how bad everything had smelled after he’d stopped.

He put his spoon down and stood up, forcing Toris to take a few steps back to be able to look at him properly.

“What is _‘all this’_ , Lithuania?”

“This!” he exclaimed angrily, throwing his arms out to his sides. Ivan was slightly surprised to see that it didn’t throw his balance off. “The- The- _My life!_ ”

“Your life is your own problem, Lithuania,” Russia told him, frowning.

“Not when _you’re_ the one ruining it!”

He could feel his willpower begin to decide that he’d attempted enough being civil for the time being. He crossed in arms in front of him.

“Am I really?”

 _“Yes!”_ Toris exploded. By now, a decent portion of the room was watching them.

“I have not been doing a thing to you, Lithuania, I do not see how-”

“S’your fault Pavel’s in the hospital,” he said, jabbing a finger into Russia’s chest. “If you hadn’t convinced him to leave me he wouldn’t have been here today!”

That, Ivan could unfortunately see as mostly true. If Pavel hadn’t come to work for him, he wouldn’t have even been in the country.

Having to admit that Lithuania had a partial point, even just to himself, pissed him off.

“ _You_ did all the convincing, Lithuania,” he told the man coldly. “When _Pasha_ came to _me, he_ said that you were too controlling.”

Toris snorted, tried to suppress it, and then just kept going, leaning over slightly, eyes too wide and smile off.

“Me? _Controlling?_ That’s _Russia;_ that’s Mother Russia with her Siberian prisons and secret police and walls across the border-”

Over Toris’s head, Ivan could see his _Prezident_ raise his eyebrows- _‘see?’_ the motion said.

“It is not like that anymore, Lithuania,” he snapped. Luka was wrong, he was _wrong_ , he didn’t _get_ to look like that- “You helped break that, remember? With your lines and your songs-”

“If you weren’t so controlling your oblasts wouldn’t be rebelling!”

Ivan took a short, sharp breath.

“See, see?!” Toris exclaimed to the room, eyes still focused on Russia. “He’s not denying it! _I told you-_ ”

“It is history that everyone knows is true and there is _no point_ in denying it!” Ivan said angrily, voice rising. “But we have moved past it and there is no reason to bring it back up! Unless you are still clinging to it, Toris?”

“There is every reason to bring it back up!” Lithuania snarled. “You are a manipulative totalitarian brute, but all you had to do is say _‘Oh,_ so _sorry about the torture and the starvation and the wars, we are all better now,_ da _?’_ and _everyone believed you._ ”

“ ** _Litva-_** ”

“You made them _forget!_ And now you have people defying you and I know you’re just _waiting_ for an opportunity to go out and _crush_ them-”

Russia fixed his boss with a glare that had once been enough to turn the very Nation he was currently arguing with into a trembling wreck, and then prepared to announce the (stupid, _stupid, **dangerous**_ ) plan the man had concocted.

“We will _not_ be-”

“And what are you going to do about Kaliningrad?” Lithuania demanded. “Are you going to march another _army_ through us, hm? Get to the city and _kill_ everyone and then _never pull back?_ ”

Yes, this was where civility retired for the night.

“You _expect_ me to set an army on _my own **people?**_ ” Ivan roared, enraged.

 _“You never had a problem with it before!”_ Toris yelled back. “You’d do it to _anyone!_ They mean _nothing_ to you; you hurt your own _family-_ ”

“I-”

 _“You’re doing it to your own sister!”_ Lithuania screamed, shoving Russia hard enough that he lost his balance completely. _“To Tasha!”_

And Ivan wasn’t sure if he grabbed Toris for balance or to pull him down with him, but Toris smashed his fist against his shoulder in an attempt to make him let go and now finally, _finally_ there was something to _hit-_

* * *

On the other side of the room, Prussia muttered “Fuck, this is a _serious_ fight,” and shot out of his seat.

“Gilbert-!” Germany yelled after him, and slammed his fist down on the table in frustration when his brother didn’t listen to him.

Feliciano, who’d managed a minor miracle that evening and convinced his President and UN delegate to slightly overcrowd the ‘German Table’ since his brothers were all at the hospital, placed his own hand comfortingly over his love’s.

Switzerland was already starting to reach for his gun, but Liechtenstein grabbed his arm.

“Prussia was right, Big _Bruder_ \- this is a _serious_ fight. Weapons will just make it worse.”

Slowly, he started to put his arm down, though his hand kept twitching reflexively, as if he were pulling a trigger.

Austria had some more tea.

“I was wondering when something like that was going to happen,” he remarked, watching as Gilbert reached Lithuania and pulled him away from Russia; just as America hooked his arms under the man’s shoulders and tried to grab him in a headlock.

But Toris threw his elbow into Prussia’s face and Russia acted on blind instinct and maybe old memories to pull out of America’s hold and punch him in the stomach. America punched him back, likely for the same reasons; and Gilbert tackled Toris back to the ground and tried to sit on him, only for Lithuania to apparently remember why they’d spent so many centuries not talking to each other and attempted to smash his kneecap; and suddenly everything was _so_ much worse than it had been a few seconds ago.

“That idiot’s going to get himself seriously hurt,” Ludwig growled, still glaring at his brother. Südtirol, who by this point seemed to have adopted him as her German father-figure despite history, winced and looked up at him, scared by the noise and his expression.

Ludwig sighed a little and held her closer.

“Umm… I think you should probably go,” Feliciano said to the Very Important People at the table as France jumped into the melee on Prussia’s side. “They uh, they’ve gotten really into it.”

“But you’re always fighting,” _Bundeskanzlerin_ Schäfer said.

“Usually we don’t try to kill each other,” Switzerland said.

“They’re trying to _kill_ each other?” the Italian _Presidente_ asked, in a mixture of shock and horror.

“You can kind of tell of by the way America just tried to break Russia’s arm,” Feliciano said helpfully. “They’ve just sort of lost it. That happens with us sometimes but usually we’re really good about not doing it-”

“I’m going to go get Gilbert before he gets himself killed,” Germany announced, and stood up, placing Südtirol in his chair and taking his suit jacket off.

Feliciano gave him a worried smile as the Nations closest to the fighting started to scoot their chairs further away; though Malta had actually gravitated closer to the fighting and was hovering around Spain and Portugal.

Ludwig stormed over and waited for a moment when Lithuania was slightly more focused on France to grab his brother. Prussia reacted by trying to throw him, but Germany was expecting the move and used the momentum to pull Gilbert’s arm around behind his back and grab his hair with the other hand.

“Ow, ow, ow, _verdammt_ , _scheiße_ , let go!” he screeched, thrashing in his brother’s hold. “Let go let go let go let go let _go!_ ”

“You’re just going to get yourself hurt!” Germany snapped. “Stay out of it!”

He dropped Prussia back into his chair.

“Damn it, Lutz! I’m not going to _break_ just because somebody punches me! I’ve had _way_ worse than that! I’ll survive!”

“You don’t _know_ that anymore!” Ludwig shot back.

Gilbert glared at him.

“ _That’s_ the problem? Fuck you, West; the firing squad in ‘47 took _three hours_ before they decided they were done with me, and I never even got _close_ to _really_ dying.”

“You were still-”

“ _Firing_ squad?” _Bundeskanzlerin_ Schäfer asked.

“Haven’t had land since 1935, Lutz. You _know_ what sort of shit we dealt with between then and the end of the war. If I _want_ to get into a fight then I _damn well can!_ ”

Germany opened his mouth to argue, but suddenly there was a huge crash as Spain and Portugal’s table broke under Russia and America’s combined weight.

* * *

 Spain didn’t know what hit him.

Well, apparently some _one_ had hit him, maybe, if it wasn’t the table _a table, why was there a table_ and it was someone big and strong but it was a little hard to tell because there was blood in his eyes and on his tongue and down the side of his face, and it was distracting.

And his head was fuzzy and that was distracting too, and the room was spinning for no good reason, and-

That was his boss on the floor there.

Someone had hurt his boss.

_His boss._

Romano. He had to find Romano _immediately_ because if someone had hurt his boss it had made him vulnerable and that meant _Romano_ was vulnerable and- and-

Romano wasn’t there.

He looked around and there was Portugal was this her fault? No it wasn’t, not this time, and he wasn’t sure how he knew that _someone big and strong-_

And Austria was over there with his Italy wait that was _his_ Italy right? Not Romano?

His vision was going in and out a little and his head hurt and his boss was on the floor and that was part of the problem but there was also the table-

Antonio got to his feet and stood there, swaying.

…England. This was England’s fault, right? England wanted to get his ships again, he wanted to- to- to do _something,_ he _always_ wanted to take over something…

But England wasn’t there and oh-

_TURKEY_

Romano. Turkey. Not there. There he is.

_TURKEY_

For some reason, he’d forgotten _left behind because he didn’t need them anymore no that was silly_ his axe and his sword and even his knife but that was all right, because there were lots of nice sharp pointy things on the table in front of

_TURKEY_

and he could use them to make him return little Roma.

Good plan, _Imperio Español_.

* * *

Feliciano stared, wide-eyed, as Spain tried to take a step but fell forward instead, grabbing Turkey and a steak knife on the way down.

 _“Spain found a sharp object!”_ he screamed to the whole room as the knife narrowly avoiding splitting Turkey’s skull open and embedded itself into the floor instead ; Spain screaming unrepeatable things at the other man, eyes expression furious under the half-mask of blood covering his face.

Most conversation in the room –at least what little of it there was at the point- stopped and turned into the frantic sounds of chairs scraping backwards and some more screams as Presidents, Prime Ministers, and Delegates collectively lost whatever fantasies they’d had about the growing commotion being just another scrap over the appetizers.

* * *

Denmark loved fighting.

Really, he did, and he would have absolutely have jumped into this by now.

But…

“ _Norge_! Iceland is _not staying calm!_ ”

Well, the tablecloth was about to catch on fire.

Iceland was rocking back and forth slightly in his seat, eyes screwed shut, the air shimmering around him. The wine flute he was clutching had started to melt and run over his hand. The china plate in front of him had popped and cracked under the oppressive heat, and he was certain the table had done the same, and there was smoke starting to curl off the tablecloth.

 _“Þegiðu Þegiðu Þegiðu Þegiðu Þegiðu,”_ he was whispering.

Hurriedly, Denmark grabbed someone’s glass and slopped the contents at the other man, but the water and ice evaporated in the air.

“Uh- _NORGE!_ _Now_ would be good!”

He started backing up, just in case. The humans seated at the table followed his lead- at least, those who weren’t fixated in terrified fascination on the spontaneous combustion in progress.

_“EILIV!”_

_"ÞEGIÐU!”_  Iceland screamed, shooting up out of his seat, eyes flying open- the blue of them _burned,_ like a piece of the sun had gotten trapped in ice-

His chair exploded under the sheer raw energy he was leaking, and the tablecloth ignited in a sudden inferno.

 _"He’s really bad at dealing with stress!”_ Denmark explained quickly as he shoved people away from the table. “ _He’s really, **really** bad at dealing with stress!_ He doesn’t have a lot of practice and _OH GOD_ _NORGE **DO SOMETHING!**_ ”

The sparks had floated through the air and settled on the table next to them, where stripes of fire were eating their way up towards Hungary and Ireland.

* * *

France’s day was _not_ going as planned.

He had nearly gotten blown up earlier, and now he was being punched in the face, and if he wasn’t careful his hair was going to catch on fire soon.

That simply _could not_ be allowed to happen.

Oh, and there were humans in trouble, too. Couldn’t forget that.

A Nation that ignored humans in trouble was no Nation at all.

He took another brain-rattling fist to the teeth from Lithuania and felt a tooth come loose.

It had been too long since his last proper brawl, since his last fight. Time was he could have dodged that. Clearly romance was simply not life-threatening enough, despite the hazards he tended to encounter.

And when did Lithuania suddenly become dangerous again, _really?_ He’d heard plenty of stories from Prussia and Poland, but this was rather humiliating. He was a European and world power!

It wasn’t even like people were ganging up on him this time!

And _where had Prussia gone?_ He was doing this for _him!_

A foot- no, a knee, _definitely_ a knee, he was very familiar with knees- connected painfully with- ow, yes, that was his spleen.

Francis groaned and doubled over, fully intending to crawl under the nearest table and recuperate. Someone _else_ could deal with the little drunk demon.

He smelled something burning.

Oh, _beautiful._ His hair _had_ caught on fire.

The acrid smell of burning hair assaulted his nose and kicked his brain into _moving;_ his spleen could just _wait._ Burning to death was _much_ less pleasant than ruptured internal organs.

France grabbed the nearest bit of loose cloth he could find and stuck his head under it, trying to smother the flames.

Unfortunately, he seemed to have grabbed Hungary’s skirt.

 _God,_ he thought as a serving tray slammed into the back of his already damaged head. _Your little jokes are no longer amusing._

_But thank you for putting out the fire._

* * *

_“Iwillberightbackdon’tgoanywhere!”_ Feliciano exclaimed and sprang from his chair, dodging fire, splintered bits of wood, a few panicked people sprinting for the nearest exit, and the wildly-flailing tangle that was Russia, America, and Lithuania as he ran for Spain.

_Please please please God I don’t want to be stabbed-_

He grabbed Antonio from behind and shoved him over, letting Turkey scramble free, cursing, just to get bowled over by Hungary, who seemed to be wielding a fancy- but now dented- serving tray in lieu of any useful cast-iron cooking apparatuses.

Spain struggled for a moment against the man holding him down and Veneziano was almost thrown off, but somehow he managed to pull his phone out and hit the speed dial before Antonio could do anything serious.

_“SPAINTALKTOLOVINORIGHTNOW!”_

He could faintly hear his brother’s voice through the phone, confused and indignant and just generally angry; and watched as Spain’s face morphed instantly into a happy, slightly-vacant grin.

Feliciano sighed in relief and crawled off Antonio. _Someone_ had to check on the man's Prime Minister, after all, and Spain clearly wasn't paying attention to his people right now. That blood _couldn't_ be a good sign.

* * *

Oh! _There_ was Romano!

“Roma! I was looking for you!” he exclaimed happily. “Where are you? I’ll come pick you up!”

“Wh- Y- Th-” Lovino spluttered from the end of the line, clearly not able to come up with something coherent to say to that.

He would be blushing now, Antonio just knew it! He’d look so cute!

“ _What the fucking hell_ are you _talking_ about, you damn moron? I’m _at the fucking hospital_ with Cristoforo!”

Hospital?

Cristoforo?

Oh, _right!_ Bomb. There had been a bomb and the Pope-

“Ah, I forgot!” Spain said, completely unconcerned. His Lovino was okay; he remembered now!

He sat up.

“Is the food any good? Do I need to bring you tomatoes?”

“No, you idiot! What the _fuck_ is all that noise?”

“Oh, America and Russia are taking out their frustrations on each other again! Lithuania’s helping.”

_“…What.”_

“People are running around panicking,” Antonio informed him, looking around at his surroundings. They’d gotten rather chaotic without him noticing, somehow. He thought he would have noticed things like this. “Hungary’s hitting people with a serving tray. And Iceland set the tables on fire. And I think France.”

Lovino was quiet for a few moments. Did the line die? Maybe he should say something.

_“Spain-”_

He started to get to his feet.

“ _Sí_?”

_"What were you doing when Feli gave you the phone.”_

He looked down at his free hand, which turned out not to be free at all.

“Ummm… trying to stab Turkey with a steak knife?” he replied, uncertain. Did he _really_ do that? He _remembered_ doing that, but it didn’t make much sense at all. Romano was all grown up now; Turkey couldn’t steal him!

_“WHY.”_

“I’m not really sure!” Antonio said, catching sight of the Turkish delegate. He smiled brightly and waved and mouthed _‘sorry!’_ before wandering off to the corner of the room to talk in peace with his Lovi.

There was blood drying all down one side of his face and in his hair. He’d have to do something about that soon, it was starting to annoy him a little bit.

“Don’t sound so fucking _happy_ about it, you bastard!” Lovino screamed at him. Antonio heard a door slam shut from that side of the phone line. “What if you’d fucking _killed_ the freak, huh? You _want_ to destroy your damn foreign relations!”

“Uh-”

"You're being even more fucking empty-headed than usual. Did someone steal whatever damn brain you've still got?"

"My table hit me on the head. I don't know why, maybe it was angry at me for something. But I'm okay now!"

"...Antonio."

“ _Sí_?”

"Where are you?"

Spain thought about this for a moment. He knew where he was, he _knew_ he knew where he was. It was just that he couldn't find the name for it right now.

The ringing in his ears wasn't helping. When had _that_ started? And his head still hurt.

"...A banquet hall?" Antonio said uncertainly, pretty sure that wasn't a good enough answer. He'd have a better one soon; really soon! Maybe after he'd had a nap.

“Just _stay there_ and _don’t do a damn thing._ I’m coming.”

“Oh Lovino, that’s _wonderful!_ ”

And it was, it really was, his _corazón_ was coming to him!

“Just don’t get set on fire or hit or something, because then I’ll have to save you, not that I _mind_ but I don’t want to see you hurt-”

The rest of his words were lost in a sudden, violent gust of bitingly cold wind.

* * *

Feliciano had been on his way back over to the table he’d abandoned in a hurry when the wind hit.

It rattled the windows and made the silverware clatter to the floor and smashed the china and the glasses when the tablecloths were ripped from their positions and made the lights flicker and shudder as the central chandelier tinkled and chimed alarmingly.

It whipped through everyone’s clothes and hair and raised goosebumps all over.

It bowled those standing completely over, knocking them into each other and the walls and the tables that somehow hadn’t managed to be damaged yet- and some that had.

It put the fire out.

Norway stared impassively at everyone, as per usual, and went to force his little brother to drink some cold water and have Denmark escort them out.

Feliciano blinked a few times, getting his bearings, and realized his arms were draped over someone’s knees. The back of his neck was resting on the edge of someone’s chair.

He tilted his head back.

“Oh- hi, Ukraine!”

* * *

France hauled himself half-upright and flopped against the top of the table, sore all over and hurting. He still smelled a bit like burnt hair, and his head was spinning, and, to top it all off, now he was _freezing._

_What a truly terrible day._

_“Allemaaaagne,”_ he moaned, lacking the energy to care that he one, looked incredibly undignified and entirely unalluring; and two, was currently lying all over some rather uncomfortable table settings. “ _Do_ something; _s'il vous plaît_. Go scream at them. Threaten them. _Intimidation._ Punch them a few times. ”

There was no reply, and Francis worked up enough resolve to turn his head to look at the man sitting next to him. It throbbed duly in pain.

“Did you not hear me, _mon ami_?”

“No,” Germany replied slowly. He had his arms crossed in front of his chest. “I’m just considering what you just asked me to.”

France made a tired-sounding _‘mmph’_ noise.

“I know, _Allemagne_ , I can barely believe my own ears-”

“You, _France,_ want _me_ to go fight people. You _want_ me to be _violent._ ”

“ _Allemagne_ , _please,_ just stop them. I will even tell you in German if you like; I am feeling perfectly _horrendous_ and it would be a disgrace to my beautiful language if I kept speaking it in such a state. I would butcher the poor dear. My heart cannot stand the thought!”

Germany decided not to comment on the implied insult to his own language.

“You _want_ this.”

“ _Oui_.”

“You’re _serious_ about this?”

_“Ja.”_

“You’re _sure?_ ”

“ _Deutschland_ , if you are trying to be difficult to make a point about Versailles, _it has been already been made._ ”

Prussia smirked.

“West, if he’s going to be this accommodating you should-”

“Gilbert, _please._ Südtirol, _süβling_ , go sit with _Österriech_.”

Germany stood and picked France up, arranging him in the chair he’d just vacated.

France sighed and slumped down against the support it offered.

“ _Merci_.”

Prussia stood up, as well.

“Gil-”

“Stop trying to argue with me on this, Lutz. I’m helping- and you _need_ me for this. You’re pretty awesome, but you can’t take Alfred _and_ Ivan at the same time. You get Russia, and if he complains afterwards send him to Francis. Whoever gets done first takes Lithuania.”

“ _Cela n'est **pas** juste_.”

“Prussia,” Ludwig said. “You _can’t_ fight America. He’s too strong.”

_"Watch me.”_

* * *

 America was punching Russia.

At this point, if anyone had asked, he would have to admit that he honestly wasn’t sure _why._

The man had once been everything he’d stood against, sure. Yeah, he was still suspicious of him. Their personal history wasn’t the best, even though during the Tsars it had been pretty good. The best he would have been able to come up with was that he was trying to stop Russia from fighting Lithuania, but that still didn’t explain why he hadn’t just sat on the guy yet or slammed his head into the wall a few times.

But no one was asking, because if they got anywhere near this, they would likely be putting themselves in mortal danger. The fight had gone past all reason and run headfirst into plain, brute, mindless force and instinct and reflex, where the only point was _survival._ It was the sort of fight that happened, and belonged, on battlefields between wartime enemies; not during peacetime in the UN dining hall between two Nations that had kind-of-sort-of-maybe-it-depends-on-what’s-happening-right-now put their past behind them.

But, they were Nations, beings who depended on borders and boundaries and _us versus them_ -even if it was just a vague of sense of being somehow _different from those guys_ \- and a certain amount of egotistical paranoia for the rest of the world, no matter how well hidden by diplomacy or subverted by friendship and love, was essential for their continued survival and self-identity.

Alfred, however, just wasn’t quite that articulate or philosophical; and while all Nations understood the basic concept deep down, most just referred to it as self-confidence; because when you needed at least a little patriotism to live, that was pretty much what it was.

America, then, would have said something like ‘because he’s _Russia_ ’, which was no reason at all; if he had been in any state to think properly and not just give into old memories and ingrained habits.

So, when something jabbed against the small of his back and voice roared-

“What sort of a half-assed _shit excuse_ for proper military conduct is _this;_ you goddamned fucking stupid farmer’s whoreson! Think like a _man_ and not some mudbrained hick who can’t tell a musket from a cannon! You think we’re damn well _playing_ at war here?!”

-but in a mangled German/French monstrosity, he flinched to the side and screamed:

“ _Ohmy_ God ** _Prussia_ ** I’m _not_ doing any more drills in triple-time _England_ doesn’t work this hard I don’t _care_ if you tie me behind another galloping horse and I get dragged through the mud!”

And then dark red eyes were boring into his own from centimeters away and-

“You want a fucking _country_ you’ve got to damn well _fight_ for it; _just like the rest of us!_ ”

-then he remembered he wasn’t in the eighteenth century anymore.

America let out a forceful, frustrated huff.

“Fuck, Prussia, that was _not cool!_ ”

Gilbert straightened up and sneered at him.

“ _‘Course_ it was.”

“Was _not._ ”

“Yeah, it _was._ Admit that you’re a country because of me and _maybe_ I’ll give you your wallet back.”

“Wha-”

Alfred scrambled in his pockets for a second before Gilbert dangled his wallet and UN ID in front of his face.

“ _Dude,_ give that _back!_ I _need_ those!”

Gilbert backed up just as the other man tried to snatch his valuables back.

“Admit it!” he said as the angry superpower advanced on him, never getting any closer. He kept one eye behind America. “Seven Years’ War, I keep France tied up in Europe so England can take New France, you don’t have a border with enemy territory anymore, feel safe enough to say _‘Fuck you, England!’_ , you get your ass handed to you, then _my_ guy shows up and teaches your _‘army’_ how to be worthy of the name

 “C’mon, Gilbert! Give me my money back!”

_“Valley Forge would’ve been the end of you if it wasn’t for me!”_

_“Prussia!”_

“Hold these for me, Toño,” Prussia told Spain, slapping America’s wallet and ID in his friend’s unsuspecting hand before dashing back to his table.

Alfred snatched them away from Antonio before Spain had even gotten a chance to realize what he was holding; and then wondered how he’d gotten so far away from Russia without noticing.

* * *

Russia was disoriented for a moment- there was screaming in French and German and America was suddenly gone and Prussia-

And then someone grabbed the front of his jacket and pulled him down suddenly he was face-to-face with Germany, who snapped

“ _Russland_!”

And his voice and eyes were cold, achingly cold, like the icy feeling in Ivan’s bones that never quite went away; and he knew that voice and those eyes-

They were broken treaties and bitter revenge and too many dead when they didn’t have to be; shouldn’t have been.

A voice and eyes that _hated_ him; _hated him_ for _no good reason-_

It was 1941 again, all in an instant, and the enemy was _here_ and only thing for Ivan to do was fight.

Germany was less than eight centimeters away. Theoretically, it should have been no problem to hit him _punch kick smash destroy his children were **dying** for his stupid dangerous_ _ideas_

But a terrified scream of _“LUDWIG!”_ and a sudden jumble of blonde hair and brown eyes and too many hands forced them apart, and suddenly it was Ukraine’s face that was in his, wide and tearful; and Ivan immediately wrapped his arms around her.

He couldn’t let anything happen to her, to his wonderful big sister; or to his little sister, or any of his family, they’d been hurt _enough_ and they weren’t going to be forced apart by them, not by anyone, _no one_ could make them leave each other-

But Germany was a foot away now, a terrified Italy with an expression to match Ukraine’s clutching at his jacket lapels.

“L-Lud- _Germany,_ **_please!_** ” the other man begged desperately, shaking him. “ _Please,_ please please please please please _stay,_ stay, just _stay,_ come back, it’s okay, everything’s okay, just- just _come back;_ don’t go away inside your head **_please-_** ”

_Going away inside your head…_

Ivan held his sister a little tighter and wondered why that sounded familiar- comforting.

And terrifying.

And Germany was shaking Italy back a little-

_He shouldn’t be doing that._

-and Russia wondered why that bothered him so much. They were both… enemies….

“What are you _talking_ about, Feliciano?”

Germany was using Italy’s name?

Ivan blinked, and looked around at the room. He shifted his arm, unconsciously, and felt something on his wrist.

_Digital watch… 1970. Pulsar-_

“L-Lu-Lud- **_Germany,_ ** if you have to be mad at someone be mad at _me_ you _always_ find things to yell at me for Russia’s not worth it _please hit me instead-_ ”

And Ger- _Ludwig’s_ expression softened from the annoyance and confusion that had replaced the (faked, how did he miss that, it didn’t have that burning anger behind it that it did before) cold hatred through sudden, painful understanding and a some guilt and sorrow quickly superseded by tenderness as he reached for his love.

“ _Spatzi_ -”

Feliciano let out a choked, relieved sob at hearing the familiar, loving name and cut him off as the man collapsed into his arms, burying his hands in Germany’s clothes and hair-

And Ivan looked around-

-and saw the broken tables, and burn marks, and shattered tableware-

-and Spain’s bloody face, Romano cleaning it as best he could-

-and France’s battered body, collapsed, broken, in Germany’s chair-

-and Lithuania lying, wheezing, on the ground-

-and what was left of the terrified, horrified, traumatized delegates and leaders who _weren’t supposed to see these things-_

-and his own President’s face, his expression-

-and knew it was _all his fault._

_There are hurt people, and scared people, and people who will never look at me with a smile again, even if it’s just for diplomatic show-_

His sister let her hands slide down his arms and took his hands in her own, squeezing them tightly. Ivan let his head fall down for a moment into the crook of her neck, and she kissed his hair, and then he led them out of the room and away from his shame.

* * *

 Feliciano couldn’t stop the tears from coming, and held Ludwig closer, and tighter, so that he wouldn’t be able to leave.

“ _Tesoro_ , _caro_ , _amato_ , I- I don’t know w-what happened, but it’s okay, i-it’s okay; your people are fine, we’re fine, everyone’s fine, everything’s _fine;_ y-you don’t need to lose yourself inside your head to escape the pain-”

And Ludwig held him back, his arms pulling him close; and Feliciano nearly sobbed, but just buried his face against his love’s shoulder and tried to calm his breathing.

“Feli…”

He’d been _so_ sure a few moments ago, _so_ scared, that he’d never hear Ludwig speak like that again, so gentle and tender and loving, whispered in his ear while his lover stroked his hair-

“Feliciano. It wasn’t like that. I was _pretending._ I was trying to distract Russia so he’d stop fighting. I am _not_ going back to being like _that._ ”

A light kiss to a bit of exposed skin, and a softer whisper-

“I’m sorry I scared you.”

Feliciano took a deep, shuddering breath.

“I-I-I’m so _glad,_ Ludwig, I’m _so_ happy you said that I was so _scared;_ Spain went all Conquistador-y, and then _you_ were using your ‘I hate everything’ voice and I was so so so so so so _so-_ ”

Ludwig cut him off, voice troubled and demanding.

“Why would you _beg_ me to hit you?”

Feliciano pushed himself back a little so he could look Ludwig in the eyes; and lifted his hands up to cup his love’s face.

“Because I’ll always forgive you. I don’t know if anyone else would, so if you’re going to hurt someone, I want it to be me. So that when you come back, no one will hate you.”

Ludwig closed his eyes and looked slightly pained. He sighed, and lifted his hands up to Feliciano’s.

“If… I ever lose myself like that, again, I don’t want to hurt you. Again.”

He opened his eyes again.

“Run away. Leave; and don’t come back until I’ve regained-”

Feliciano threw his arms around Ludwig’s neck.

“No,” he told him. “I won’t leave you.”

* * *

It had been a good hour or two since the dinner brawl.

The dining room was still a disaster area, and likely would be for a while. This would normally put gatherings over food to a halt- and even over drinks, because the ever-popular bar was situated against one wall on the room.

But the sommelier/bartender possessed an uncanny knowledge for when exactly alcohol was needed, and had arrived at her post and begun preparing almost immediately after everyone had vacated the room.

So the wine, and the vodka, and the beer- and the brandy and whiskey and absinthe- were all ready and waiting when _Prezident_ Pajari stumbled into the room and collapsed onto a bar stool; more than ready to have a few drinks and attempt to block out the worst day he could ever remember having before attempting to sleep.

Other people evidently had the same idea, as drinks ended up being poured for _Bundeskanzlerin_ Schäfer, _Presidente_ Sarto, _Premier_ Vieuxpont- and, eventually, _Presidente_ Molina, who came down with an icepack on the back of his head.

It was at that point that the sommelier/bartender, with the instinct for exits that had could only be developed and finely-tuned by employees of the United Nations in the mayhem that was the Headquarters during the on-season, took her leave of the room.

The political leaders of Europe sat in silence for a while before _Premier_ Vieuxpont turned to _Presidente_ Molina.

“Are you sure you should be drinking with a head wound like that?”

The Spanish Head of Government shrugged as best he could with one hand holding an icepack to the back of his head and the other still holding a small glass of iced, watered-down absinthe.

“I know my limits. And I need it after today.”

There was general agreement around the bar counter for this statement.

“I have no idea _what_ I’m supposed to tell Burakgazi, either,” Molina continued. “I just… don’t know how to explain it.”

“Well, that was rather- _abnormal,_ of Spain, wasn’t it?”

“I never thought I’d see him angry,” _Presidente_ Sarto cut in. “Romano is always yelling at him, and shoving him around, and I’ve never once seen him get angry about it. I’ve never even _heard_ of him being angry.”

“Even when he’s drunk,” _Bundeskanzerlin_ Schäfer added. “I’ve had him in my office drunk before, and he’s a little odd, but not angry.”

Molina looked slightly guilty.

“When did that happen?”

Schäfer waved her hand dismissively.

“A few months ago. With Gilbert; Germany came and dragged them out. It’s all right.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“So none of you have this sort of trouble with your Nations?” Pajari asked despondently.

“The fighting?” Schäfer asked. “I hear about that all the time. I have _completely_ lost track of how many angry phone calls I’ve gotten from Sorge and Proházska demanding that Gilbert stop showing up and antagonizing people.”

“And you can’t do anything about it?”

He sounded even more despondent.

“No. His brother doesn’t seem to be able to, either. Are you having specific problems, _Prezident_ Pajari?”

“We’re _drinking,_ ” Sarto reminded everyone. “Let’s use first names, shall we? I, personally, would not like to think of official things right now.”

Schäfer looked a little uncomfortable with this, but ended up going along with it.

“So… Luka?”

“I think he hates me,” Russia’s boss admitted. “He yelled at me earlier and he wouldn’t stop glaring at me and he locked the door between our suites when he went to bed.”

“Russia’s already _asleep?_ How do you get him to keep hours like that? Germany won’t be in bed for another three at _least._ ”

“What, really?” Vieuxpont asked, astonished. “He actually _works_ at night?”

“I don’t think he’s working tonight,” Sarto said resignedly. “Veneziano never came back to the apartments.”

“…Lauro,” Schäfer said. “I didn’t need to know that.”

“Sorry Vera. But now you know to leave them alone.”

Awkward silence descended.

“So how do you two manage… _that?_ ” Vieuxpont wanted to know.

“How do you manage _his_ exploits, Régis?” Vera Schäfer asked.

Vieuxpont winced.

“I try to keep it out of mind until I have to deal with it.”

“Exactly.”

“We’re still in the adjustment period,” Lauro added.

“Me too,” Molina said.

Luka sighed.

“I need more alcohol. Can someone pass me the brandy? I need to do more forgetting before _I_ try going to sleep.”

Vera obliged and shoved the brandy bottle down the counter a little.

“Today was just too much,” she agreed.

“And it wasn’t just Russia,” Luka continued, taking in a bit more alcohol. He pointed at _Presidente_ Sarto. “It was _yours,_ too.”

 _“Mine?”_ the Italian Head of State asked incredulously. “Well, with Romano-”

“No no no,” Luka cut him off, shaking his head. “It was _Veneziano._ ”

“What?” everyone else wanted to know.

“After the bomb. You know, when, uh, Russia-”

He contemplated the brandy for a moment, wondering if it would make his stomach stop roiling.

“We know,” Molina said simply.

“With that. Veneziano tried to- to _‘distract’_ me.”

“I am very, _very_ sorry if he tried to take off his clothes again,” Lauro Sarto said quickly.

“You have that problem too?” Régis asked.

“Not like that, Lauro,” Luka said, waggling a finger at him. “And it was a pretty good distraction. But it was about how their sort of people _usually_ died. And he told me about seven or eight different ways to poison people. And implied that he’d used them all. More than once.”

 _“No,”_ Molina said, sounding scandalized.

“Oh, _yes,_ Teódulo.”

“Not _Veneziano,_ ” Vera Schäfer said, incredulous.

“Then his brother came over and yelled at him for telling me about it. And practically outright _said_ that he was a serial poisoner.”

“Wow,” Régis said. “I never would have thought that. He’s always seemed like such a nice person.”

“I’d always though they all _were_ nice people,” Luka said. “And then today happened.”

“No one should be that sanguine about death,” Lauro agreed.

“Or that willing to jump into fight,” Vera added.

“Or set things on fire,” Régis added.

“You don’t think they’re all secretly psychopaths, do you?” Teódulo asked.

There was a bit of awkward silence.

“Well…” _Bundeskanzlerin_ Schäfer began uncertainly, remembering a few things about Prussia and Italy from a few hours earlier that she was still having problems with.

“Psychopathic might be a _bit_ harsh,” _Premier_ Vieuxpont cut in.

“But I think there are clearly some unresolved issues here,” _Presidente_ Sarto said.

“Veneziano told me that usually when he died, if it wasn’t because he’d gotten poisoned, it was because he’d drowned fighting on his fleet.  When he was a _child._ ”

“ _Ah Dios_ ,” Molina said, looking sick. “You don’t think that’s a _normal_ thing for them?”

“He said it was.”

The silence was heavy this time.

“That… might explain some things,” Vera said eventually.

Régis crossed himself.

“What sort of lives do these people _lead?_ ”

“I don’t really want to think about it too much,” Luka answered. “I already know more than ever knew I never wanted to.”

“Perhaps they should talk to someone about these things,” Lauro said. “There _has_ to be trauma. Between what Luka just said and what we’ve seen today, I think it’s rather clear that they have _things_ they need to confront.”

The others thought about this for a moment.

“I think that’s probably a good idea,” Molina said.

* * *

Irene knocked on Arthur Kirkland’s door. The sound echoed through the generally-empty street- there a few lagging, older trick-or-treaters, so people were probably still up in the houses, but she didn’t want to disturb anyone.

The door opened under her fist, and she pushed it open further. There was no one else there.

This did not surprise her too much.

“Just come in!” Arthur called from somewhere in the depths of the house.

Irene wandered toward where she thought she’d heard the voice, and found the kitchen. It looked like someone had been busy- the table was littered with little trinkets; a pair of knitting needles, two gold coins, two lumps of coal, a block of tea, a bar of soap, a large cloth bag- but there was no one in sight.

There was stomping close by and a door on the other side of the table banged open against the wall. Arthur emerged, doing his best not to drop three hand-sized glass jars full of… clover?

“Eat until you’re full,” he ordered, putting the jars down on the table. “Anything you want that’s already in the kitchen, I don’t care what, just try to use up the perishables first.”

Irene looked at him doubtfully but opened the refrigerator cautiously. After staring for a few moments at the doubtful-looking leftovers, she poured herself some milk and decided that the uncut cheese and raw vegetables were her safest choices.

Kirkland had opened the bag and was packing the things from the table in the bag, carefully wrapping each item, or pair of items, in pieces of white cloth. On some, he uncapped a black marker he’d produced from somewhere and wrote a few runes on the cloth. Each bundle, no matter whether marked or not, got tied with a thin red cord.

Irene had finished her food by the time Arthur was done packing- he slung the strap of the bag over his shoulder and pocketed the two gold coins he hadn’t wrapped.

“Make a sandwich,” he told her.

“But I just finished eating-”

“It’s not for you.”

Irene frowned at him.

“If you’re hungry, make it yourself.”

Arthur sighed, sounding a little exasperated.

“It’s not for _me,_ either, I’ve already eaten. We’ll need it where we’re going. It doesn’t matter what sort it is, just make one. There’s wax paper and thread for wrapping it up in the drawer there.”

Irene checked the drawer, and, sure enough, there was some white wax paper and a spool of red thread, complete with a tiny pair of scissors for snipping the right amount of thread off.

She remembered what was in the refrigerator and decided that whoever the poor sot was who was going to have to stomach a mayonnaise, cabbage, and shredded-lunchmeat-of-doubtful-quality, well… she was glad she wasn’t them.

Arthur took the sandwich from her almost the second after she’d finished tying off the thread and tucked in the top of his bag.

“Stand over by the table.”

Irene thought that if Arthur Kirkland kept ordering her around like this, even if he _was_ a sorcerer and even if he _was_ going to help her get Eglantine back, _she_ might just have to start being rude to _him._

She stood over the table anyway, and Arthur took a few steps toward her before stopping. He lifted one hand, fingers bent and spread slightly, towards himself; and the other, in the same position, towards her. She caught a hint of something, but she wasn’t sure if it was nothing or something her Sight was trying to pick up on.

Kirkland flicked his fingers out straight and away from each other suddenly, and Irene realized that it had been her Sight- it felt like something had settled over her.

“What did you just do?” she demanded.

“I spelled us so we wouldn’t feel hunger or thirst. It works best if you’ve just eaten, because the spell itself just keeps us feeling as sated as we were when it was cast. It will stay in place until we come back.”

Irene wondered if she really wanted to know why they’d need that, and decided to ask anyway.

“We’re going to Faerie, aren’t we?”

Kirkland raised his eyebrows.

“Excuse me?”

“Fairyland,” Irene said, crossing her arms. “That’s why you spelled us- if we’re not hungry, we can’t be tempted to eat or drink anything while we’re there and end up stuck.”

Arthur actually smiled.

“Bloody _hell,_ it feels _good_ to have someone know what I’m on about! Yes, that’s where we’re going- eventually. Just, when we get there, don’t call it ‘Fairyland’, or ‘Faerie’, or any of that nonsense. They don’t like it.”

“Eventually?”

“First we go to Cardiff.”

* * *

 England let go of his daughter’s hand reluctantly. He could hear her shaky breathing from behind him, but refused to look. Humans travelling the way Nations could, one step to just about anywhere within a certain distance, usually took it like this; though it never affected Nation. It was best if he acted like everything was normal- it would keep her from panicking.

Humans were just not made for this sort of thing, and as he walked up Wales’s drive, Arthur shoved back the little voice in his mind that was reminding him that Irene was probably technically only _part_ -human, she had at least a _little_ Sight; and if that was so he could _teach_ her _so_ many things, maybe _she’d_ be able to take a five minute walk from Liverpool to Paris someday-

He heard Irene’s footsteps _crunch_ on the gravel drive behind him as he stepped onto the porch and pounded on the door.

“ _Tristan!_ Open the bloody door; I need to talk to you!”

The door opened immediately, but England found himself staring at reddish-brown eyes instead of black ones; despite the strong, distinct, unmistakable signs of magic surrounding the person who’d answered him.

“Do your _parents_ know you’re practicing sorcerery, young man?” he demanded sternly.

“I’d be extremely surprised if they did,” Cassiel replied, looking slightly surprised himself at finding England there- and having him know immediately what he’d been doing.

“We’re going to bloody well have _words_ about this when I get back, Cassiel Beilschmidt!” Arthur snapped, pushing past him into the house.

 _If_ he _can do magic, so can Irene-_

“Where’s Tristan?”

“He’s up-”

“Here.”

England looked up at the second-story landing lining the walls of Wales’s foyer. Wales himself was leaning nonchalantly on the section of railing directly above him.

Arthur backed up so he wouldn’t have to crane his neck so much to get a good view of his neighbor.

“Tristan, where’s Miacel?” he demanded.

Wales started a little- his chin jerked up slightly.

“Why do _you_ need to know, Arthur?” he asked suspiciously. “You know better ways to get there than by going by _that_ route.”

“Those ways work smashingly for people like _us,_ Tristan- but I have to take _her._ ”

He pointed at his daughter.

Wales scowled.

“Arthur, what are you _doing?_ ”

“That’s _Irene Walker,_ ” England said, hoping he’d get the hint. “That bloody French _Bluebeard_ made off with _her daughter._ ”

Wales clearly got it- England could _feel_ the man’s glare.

“You _have_ to take her?”

_“Yes.”_

Wales was silent for a few, long moments.

“Fine. He’s in Gwynedd-  Afon Dwyryd.”

“ _Thank_ you,” he replied, turning to leave. Then he remembered something. “And you’re in charge while I’m gone. I don’t trust Kenneth!”

“And _he_ doesn’t trust _you._ Now get going.”

England scowled at the floor, noted Cassiel’s too-interested expression- he was worse than a cat, _always_ getting into things he shouldn’t be, _none_ of his parents were that curious (oh, but the _looks_ on their _faces_ Israel and the Vatican were going to have when he told them their son was a witch!)- and reminded himself to have a stern talk with the boy later. Magic was dangerous business, you couldn’t just go mucking about in it without knowing what you were doing.

He took Irene’s hand again, and when they stepped out Wales’s front door, they were on the south bank of the River Dwyryd.

* * *

Irene took a deep breath. She wasn’t sure how Kirkland could treat their- teleportation, or whatever it was- so nonchalantly, not when it felt like she was being…

Well, she wasn’t sure she could describe it, but it didn’t feel very pleasant. And there didn’t seem to be any air when they did it.

She took a few more deep breaths and looked around. They were on a river now, presumably the place that the Tristan man had told Arthur he could find this ‘Miacel’.

It was very dark, the only illumination from the stars and the orangey half-moon hanging in the sky.

Arthur Kirkland stepped up to the very edge of the water and snapped.

The sound was louder than it had any right to be, and echoed out over the water unnaturally, the single tone stretching out longer and deeper than it ever should have, fading away slowly.

Before the ripples on the river caused by the noise died down, a man in a pole boat had appeared, pulling his boat up less than a foot away from Arthur.

Surely the river was too shallow to allow that.

“Two passengers, Miacel Badsddyn,” Arthur told him, handing over the coins. “Myself and the lady.”

Miacel breathed out, the sound carrying like a rattling sigh, and took the coins.

Arthur climbed into the boat.

“Come on, Irene.”

She followed him uncertainly into the boat. It was colder in it than outside it, which didn’t make any sense.

And it worried her.

_Don’t you pay the ferryman to take you after you-_

Arthur put his hand briefly over hers as Miacel pushed them off further into the river.

“Don’t look like someone just walked over your grave, love. It’s not like that.”

They were travelling crosswise to the current, straight across from one bank to the other. Irene wasn’t sure _why_ they needed to take a boat across when Arthur could have just teleported them, but-

-when had the mist showed up?

She’d been able to see the other side of the river clearly before they’d gotten into the boat- the moon was bright and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

What was going _on?_

Irene turned around and looked behind her, towards the direction the boat was travelling.  She couldn’t see anything just yet, but the mist was thinning a little, and-

The mist went as suddenly as it had come, fading away before her eyes to reveal towering cliffs in the distance, overlooking a rocky shore.

She turned back around to face the way they had come. There was nothing but an endless, silent expanse of water- a whole ocean.

They were in the open ocean, but Miacel was still polling them.

Irene leaned over, meaning to stick her hand in the water and see if it was somehow shallower than it seemed-

Arthur grabbed her hand in a death grip.

_He’s unnaturally strong._

_“Don’t,”_ he said, green eyes seeming to glow in the darkness.

Irene sat back up and tucked her hands in her lap.

A few more minutes brought them to the rocky beach, Miacel polling them to the same distance as he’d stopped before.

“Thank you, Miacel Badsddyn,” Kirkland said, standing and bowing his head slightly. “May your journeys be calm.”

He stepped out of the boat onto the rocks and held out his hand to help Irene off the boat. She set foot on the rocks and turned around to thank the boatman herself-

-but he was gone.

Arthur Kirkland took a deep breath of the cool, slightly-tangy sea air.

“Irene,” he said, his voice settling easily into the quiet silvery stillness of the night. “Welcome to Honalee.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Elke ha detto sei italiano?_ (Italian)- Elke said you're Italian?  
>  _Habe Angst_ (German)- I'm scared  
>  _[Tutto] sta bene_ (Italian)- [Everything is]/It's okay  
>  _Ax Bozhe, Brat, pohovory zi mnoyu!_ (Ukrainian)- Oh God, Brother, talk to me!  
>  _Pomogite!_ (Russian)- Help!  
>  _Pagalba!_ (Lithuanian)- Help!  
>  _Ačiū_ (Lithuanian)- Thank you  
>  _Was bedeuten Sie?_ (German)- What do you mean?  
>  _Ma Genova ha rifiutato di arretra-_ (Italian)- But Genoa refused to back off-  
>  _Ciò non è alcuna ragione!_ (Italian)- That's no reason!  
>  _Tēvoci_ (Latvian)- Uncle  
>  _No dalej, Polska. Tylko zgodzić się z mi._ (Polish)- Come on Poland, just agree with me.  
>  _Illī etiam possum ludo, Sanctā Sede! De te cūramus et amāmus; et facibimus quisquis facibimus!_ (Latin)- I can play that game too, Holy See! We care about you and we love you; and we'll do whatever we'll do!  
>  _Þegiðu_ (Icelandic)- Shut up  
>  _Cela n'est pas juste_ (French)- That is not fair


	16. 2047: November

Armas Oxenstierna sat slumped at his father’s dining room table, flipping despondently through rejection letters.

 _I can’t live on_ Far _’s couch forever._

Maybe he should stop giving his name as _‘Armas Oxenstierna’_. That name led potential employers straight to his brother.

The man who assassinated the Finnish Prime Minister- the reason no one would hire him.

He supposed he could file a discrimination suit if he _really_ wanted to, but no doubt the media would pick it up, and getting a job because he’d _forced_ someone to hire him wouldn’t be pleasant at _all._

_Armas Väinämöinen- that just doesn’t sound right._

He’d never used _‘Väinämöinen’_ before; that was an awkward name in Finland, and made people ask questions about why his surname was the name of Finland’s greatest literary hero.

Armas didn’t know. He’d never asked. He had a feeling the answer would either be incredibly uncomfortable, or just too strange for him to handle.

Possibly both.

In Sweden, though, people were much less likely to ask- they were less likely to know about the sorcerer Väinämöinen.

It was still only the next country over, though. _That_ could be it- maybe if he went to Oslo; or hopped the Baltic to Denmark or Germany-

-but he didn’t want to leave his parents alone. Eluf’s betrayal was still too recent and strong for him to just leave their countries entirely; even if, by their standards, going to a neighboring country was like he’d only moved down the street.

He dropped his head into his hands, and then pulled them back through his hair.

Was there _really_ no good solution to his unemployment problem?

A long plastic bag with a hangar sticking out dropped onto the table next to him.

Armas looked up to find Sweden standing there.

“ _Far_?”

“Get dressed.”

“I-”

“Y’r gettin’ out of th’ house. ‘S a suit. We’re goin’ t’the weddin’.”

“The wedding?” Armas asked, checking the bag- it was a suit.

“Denmark and Liechtenstein’s.”

* * *

Keld Schumacher, Dutch clinical psychologist, fiddled with his pen and looked at the man in the suit sitting across from him. He wasn’t a regular client, and this wasn’t a regular meeting, but he found himself doing a bit of analyzing on the man, anyway.

 _He doesn’t want to be here,_ he decided of this ‘Rémy Beilschmidt’. _I don’t what this is about, but he’d rather not be doing this._

Schumacher tried to do a bit of divining from the man’s name.

_French given name, German surname. French mother, German father? Or two German parents who just liked the name?_

Rémy Beilschmidt had apparently decided he had enough of waiting for Schumacher to say something.

“I’m here to offer you new employment,” he said.

Schumacher raised an eyebrow, silently rearranging his ideas about the man. His German had a distinct _Parisian_ accent.

_A Frenchman, then. German father who moved to France to be with his wife or a French father with German ancestors?_

“The job itself is unique,” Rémy continued. “And complicated. This would be a job that requires a lot of traveling. You’d be- _treating_ a group of clients, not just one.”

 _He hesitated on ‘treating’. Does he not like the idea? Why? And a_ group _of clients?_

“Who would be my employer, then?” Schumacher asked. “I was looking into making a private practice-”

“You’d have essentially have the freedom of a private practice with this job,” Rémy assured him. “The only limitation I can think of is that you wouldn’t be able to prescribe medications; but that’s why we’ve been looking for psychologists that fit our criteria in the first place. There will be only one psychologist on this job- and after background checks, we’ve decided we’d like it to be you.”

 **_Background_ ** _checks?_

“Who is this _‘we’_?” Schumacher asked, folding his hands in front of him on his desk.

Rémy Beilschmidt opened the official-looking folder he’d brought with him and produced a packet of paper.

“Before I tell you anything else, you have to sign this contract of complete confidentiality. If you refuse to sign, I’ll have to leave and we’ll go to the next choice on our list.”

Schumacher took the contract and started to read through it.

“It basically says that if you discuss the contents of anything I or any of my associates say after this with anyone besides those pre-approved, you agree that you know that any country in the world so wronged has the legal ability to arrest you for telling uncleared persons of state secrets,” Rémy said.

Schumacher froze.

 _“State_ secrets? _”_

“If you want to know, Mr.Schumacher, you have to sign. It doesn’t obligate you to take the job; just that you agree not to talk to anyone about what we say here, and if you _do_ take the job, what happens during the course of it.”

The psychologist gave him a look and then skimmed through the contract. It wasn’t very long, but it did seem to say only what Rémy had told him.

It was already signed by the United Nations Under-Secretary-General for Legal Affairs; with an ominously blank line awaiting another signature.

_The United Nations-_

Schumacher glanced back up at Rémy Beilschmidt, sharply. _Whoever_ this man was, he had power.

Wondering if he was making a grave mistake, Keld Schumacher signed his name.

* * *

Teodozja stood in front of her mirror- she could actually think of the room Poland had given her in his house as _hers,_ now- and once more attempted to make some sense of the complete turnaround her life had made.

At this time the year before she was out in the street, something like three months pregnant- hungry, cold, disowned, and utterly alone.

Now, she was living in a house in the wealthiest district of Warsaw, with her Nation, as fed and warm and educated and _accepted_ as she had once had been.

She was also wearing a very nice dark red dress. Because she was going to a wedding. In another country.  As part of the officially-invited delegation from Poland to the wedding of two royal houses.

There had to be a catch _somewhere,_ right? This was too good.

Roksana even had a specially-made matching outfit to keep her warm and _‘looking as_ totally _cute as we can like,_ possibly _make her be!’_

She wasn’t sure that a teenage mother and her infant baby were really the proper people to include in an official delegation to _anywhere,_ royal wedding or otherwise- but Poland had said she was going, so she was going.

Apparently, he’d justified it as part of her continuing education; and was going to use the opportunity to introduce her to the finer points of political etiquette, teach her a few things about international relations, and give her German a good workout.

Since she was going to _Liechtenstein._

Last year this time, she wouldn’t have been able to point it out on a map. Part of that reason, she now knew, was because it was too small to show up on most maps, and tended to get mistaken for a particularly large town in Switzerland or Germany on those you _could_ find it on.

Dosia knew there was no further point in pretending that there was some part of her appearance that still needed work, so he turned away from the mirror, picked up Roksana, and went downstairs.

Poland was waiting for her by the front door to take her to the airport- because they were flying, _to Liechtenstein,_ in the Prime Minister’s _private plane._

 _With_ the Prime Minister.

Feliks smiled at her.

“You ready?”

Teodozja wasn’t, not _really-_ but she nodded anyway, because there was there no point in disagreeing.

Poland, looking fancy in his suit, took her arm and escorted her out the door.

* * *

Lichtenstein sat on a stool just behind the similarly-seated Her Serene Highness Anja Hella Johanna von und zu Lichtenstein, Princess of Lichtenstein, Duchess of Troppau and Jägerndorf, Countess of Rietburg; finishing up her Princess’s hair.

Anja herself was leaning forward slightly, arms wrapped loosely around her midsection, as if she was trying to protect the life growing there.

“Are you feeling all right, Anja?” Liesl asked quietly.

“I- yes, I’m fine- it’s- I’m-”

“-getting married in a few hours,” Liesl finished for her.

“Exactly.”

Lichtenstein put a few more pins in the Princess’s hairdo and stepped back.

“How is that?”

Anja glanced at herself quickly in the mirror.

“That’s good.”

Liesl moved around to the woman’s front side, resisting the urge to fiddle with her own hair. She’d gotten it cut shorter- to the hinge of her jaw- for the occasion. She’d been meaning to do it for a while; there wasn’t too much you could do with hair that barely reached past your chin. But bobbed hair _always_ looked classy.

“Are you _sure_ you’re all right, Anja?”

“It’s just nerves, I think,” she replied weakly.

“Anja- I’m pretty sure you do, but… you _do_ love him, right?”

“Of _course_ I do!” the Princess exclaimed. “It’s just that I’m getting _married._ ”

Liesl smiled at her and took one of Anja’s hands.

“Everything will be wonderful, Anja.”

“There’s going to be _cameras._ ”

“Not that many. It’s not like its _England’s_ wedding.”

“I haven’t had to do much with cameras that aren’t ours before.”

“You’ll get used to it. Denmark is a lot bigger than us.”

“And this ‘holding of countries in personal union’-”

“Is that what you’re worried about?” Liechtenstein asked, a little surprised. “Anja, it hasn’t happened in a while, but most monarchs don’t really _rule_ anymore. The personal union is symbolic this time- Denmark and I both keep our sovereignty. We just have a lot more state events and official appearances together.”

Anja smiled, looking a little abashed.

“I know, I know- I just-”

Liesl leaned forward, careful not to disturb any part of her Princess’s wedding look, and hugged her.

“I even arranged for Sebastianto sit on _completely_ the opposite side of the cathedral from Denmark and I. And I got the Vatican to tell him that guns are, under no circumstances, unless the person in question is a member of the Swiss Guard or Vatican security, to be in a church. And he _listens_ to the Vatican.”

“Thank you,” Anja said simply, and uncurled a little. She kept one hand over her womb.

Liechtenstein slipped on of her hands under her Princess’s and smiled gently.

“The baby will be fine, too.”

* * *

Halya Sadekovich Adnan moved around her hotel in room in Vaduz as quietly as she could, slipping into the fancy skirt-and-jacket combination she was wearing to the ceremony that day.

The bed behind her creaked a little and she heard the sheets slide across each other. Halya finished buttoning her jacket just as the footsteps that had padded across the floor stopped just behind her. A pair of thin arms wrapped around her.

“Morning, Else,” Halya greeted her fiancée.

Else leaned against her back and let her head rest on Halya’s shoulder for a minute.

“Mornin’,” she replied sleepily, and gave the other woman a kiss.

Halya smiled and reached back to pinch her hip.

“Stop tempting me. Go put some clothes on.”

Else snorted.

“Not lookin’ at me.”

“But I _know_ what you look like, sweetheart- so put some clothes on before I make us late.”

Else sighed and hugged Halya, then pulled away.

“Care more ‘bout my father,” she said, her voice a little muffled from the shirt she was pulling over her head.

“I’m sure they’ll notice if you show up late, Else,” Halya replied; sitting down and slipping her shoes on. “And your parents _will_ find out about it. Do you want them to hear that you were late from the _tabloids_ or something?”

“Care more ‘bout who’re _you._ ”

“Else, you need morning coffee, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

Halya shook her head and called for room service to send up some strong coffee and food. It came promptly, and soon the two of them were seated at the small table near the bed.

Else became much more articulate after coffee.

“Are your parents going to be there?” she asked. “They are the sort of the people who get invited to these things, usually.”

“My _Babam_ ’s coming. He wasn’t invited; but usually no one says ‘no’ to a Nation when they want to show up somewhere. _Materi_ ’s too busy. And she said that she doesn’t think she can leave _Cjotka_ Tasha alone for very long now. She’s gotten a lot worse.”

Else reached across the table.

“I’m sorry.”

Halya smiled at her.

“It’s okay. We’re not sure when, yet… but _Materi_ says that _Cjotka_ will probably last until Easter. But there’s just no way to be sure.”

“Do they think she’ll be around for our wedding?”

Halya took a deep breath.

“Else?”

“Yes?”

“I haven’t actually told my parents we’re engaged yet.”

* * *

Rémy took the contract back and stuck it in his folder.

“Thank you, Mr. Schumacher; you’re the first person we’ve talked to who decided to sign.”

“So this _‘we’_ ,” Schumacher said, determined to make the best of whatever-it-was he’d just done.

“You’d be employed by the United Nations officially, but mostly you’d be working through the EU unofficially- which pretty much means _you_ talk to _me,_ and then _I_ report back to the Director of Nations’ Affairs at UN Headquarters in New York.”

“Who would I be treating?” the psychologist asked, thinking of the terms of the contract. “Heads of State? Department officials?”

“No,” Rémy answered him. “Their _Nations._ ”

"Their _nations?_ ” Schumacher asked, deeply confused as to how he was supposed to treat entire countries.

Rémy looked at him expectantly for a moment, and then registered the other man’s confusion.

 “Ah, I am too used to the English way of referring to them. _De **Zielenvolk**_ , Mr. Schumacher.”

Keld Schumacher inhaled sharply.

“The **_Zielenvolk?_** ”

“Yes.”

Rémy’s expression twisted into an odd smile.

“The leaders of Europe decided to be _progressive_ a week or two ago and realized that they have quite a few unresolved _issues;_ and that they should probably try to _do_ something about it- since in the entire history of the science, they have never _once_ been psychologically evaluated or treated.”

Schumacher quickly thought of the number of countries in the world and wondered how on _Earth_ he was supposed to handle something like that.

“Now, Mr. Schumacher,” Rémy said after a moment, bringing him back to the conversation. “That’s the job. You’d be employed indefinitely, depending on what exactly you manage to accomplish and how much work and time it takes. All your travel expenses would be paid by the UN, but food and lodging and clothes and such would be your responsibility. Due to the- _unique_ _and_ _challenging_ nature of the job, your starting salary would be significantly higher than what you currently make, with regular bonuses and pay raises as progress is made.”

“What exactly constitutes _‘progress’_ here?” the psychologist asked.

“I really honestly have no idea,” Rémy admitted. “I suppose that depends on what your first impressions of their situations are, and how much you can change them.”

“Ah- you said I’d work through the European Union. Does this mean I’m going to only be treating member states?”

“Mostly, they’ll be European Nations; though I believe some other countries would like to get involved as well.”

“Which ones, then?”

“ _That_ information comes after you accept the job, Mr.Schumacher.”

Rémy went back to his folder and produced a second, thicker contract.

“So, will you sign?”

Schumacher took it.

“Let me look it over,” he said.

Rémy seemed to accept this- he got up and wandered over to the other side of the room to inspect the pictures and give him some space.

Keld flipped through the pages of the contract, thinking.

This job had shown up at a bit of an inconvenient time- he was halfway into starting his own private practice, his clients had already been phased over to other psychologists-

-but that just meant he was open. He didn’t have a building or employees for his planned practice yet, so it wasn’t like he’d be undoing anything by taking this job.

And it _would_ pay quite a bit better, he noted. It said so right in section three.

But did he _really_ want to travel Europe and possibly the world, meeting people he knew nothing about, having no permanent home and having to live in completely unfamiliar surroundings, dealing with things he’d never seen or heard of before?

Who was he kidding? Of _course_ he did.

(And, it _had_ been implied that he would be the _first_ to do this…)

Everything seemed to be in order- really, he shouldn’t be so willing to sign this without having someone in legal look it over first, but he trusted the UN not to scam him.

He signed the contract before he could convince himself not to, or something else equally ridiculous.

“Mr. Beilschmidt,” he said to get the other man’s attention. The UN- EU- representative? came back to the desk and placed the contract back in his folder.

“Thank you very much, Mr.Schumacher,” he said. “You’ve just made my life- _supposedly_ much easier.”

“Supposedly?” Schumacher asked. “And, if I may, a few questions for my curiosity?”

Rémy pulled out yet another thing from his folder- a manila envelope this time.

“I suppose so,” he said.

“You seem unhappy about this situation- earlier you hesitated about ‘treatment’ and just now with your ‘supposedly’-”

“I think this is an impossible job,” Rémy told him, handing over the envelope. “I _know_ _them._ They are _not_ going to be happy about this -which makes _my_ life and those of the people I know and care about difficult- and I _really_ doubt anyone can help them but each other, in the first place. That’s how it’s always worked- mutual support, and time. Your clients are listed in there, along with some supplementary materials.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Schumacher said.

“Some advice for you, Mr.Schumacher,” Rémy said suddenly. “Brush up on your history and international relations. It’s not always the most important part of their issues, but it’s a large part of their lives. You’re going to have to deal with that.”

He seemed to be debating something with himself for a moment before taking a pen and a sticky note off of Schumacher’s desk.

“If you have more questions, you can call me at this number,” he said, sticking the note to the envelope Schumacher was still holding and taking another note. “But if you can also call Cassiel Navin at _this_ number; and Giovanna Pietri at the second one.”

Rémy stuck the note to the top of the desk, replacing the pen.

“They’re my cousins-in-law,” he said by way of explanation. “Cass is- well, his hobby seems to be doing whatever he finds interesting, and an overly-detailed exploration of history is one of those things. Giovanna works at the Vatican Archives, and is just very helpful for everything.”

Rémy and Schumacher shook hands.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Schumacher. We will be in touch about the times of your flights and appointments- I wish you the best of luck for this.”

The psychologist could clearly hear the ‘you’ll need it’ implied in that statement.

“One more thing, Mr.Beilschimdt-” he said, before Rémy had quite made it out the door.

The other man paused.

“Yes?”

“It’s clear to me that you’re French- you’ll never lose that Parisian accent. Why ‘Beilschmidt’?”

He didn’t reply.

“I’m just curious,” Schumacher said. “If-”

“It’s my _wife’s_ name, Mr.Schumacher. I didn’t want anything to do with my other one. _Goede Dag_.”

 

* * *

Tai Wang- known in China as Tai Carreido- lay on the bed in the room his grandfather had given him for his stay and thought about how much he missed the Internet.

Seriously. It wasn’t like an unobstructed Internet search was going to _kill_ someone.

He had vague memories of Beijing, from when he was still young. Most of what he’d known about the city when he’d arrived in China, three months ago, was from his father’s stories and descriptions. Those had been the catalyst for his interest in coming to his father’s homeland.

Now, though, he was having some doubts.

Maybe it was just because he was staying with the People’s Republic of China. Maybe it was because he was a foreigner staying for more than a month or two; and not on business. Maybe it was because the Chinese government was probably paranoid.

But he was being watched, and Tai didn’t like that.

His grandfather had tried to hide it, but Tai had caught on quickly- especially after China had tried to keep him cooped up in the house. He thought that maybe the government’s paranoia was catching.

Tai needed something to do; something outside, without so much supervision. He wanted to wander around the city, see all the sights and hear all the people…

Well, he could do that.

Tai stood up and pocketed the phone he’d been trying to get Internet access on. China lived in an apartment complex, and had a whole floor to himself. The room he’d been given had a fire escape.

So Tai closed the door to his room, opened the window, checked to make sure he could open and close it from the outside, climbed onto the fire escape, and shut the window behind him.

He felt no remorse for this action. It wasn’t like he’d be walking around _completely_ unsupervised- the government handlers, as discreet as they were probably trying to be, would be watching him all the time.

So it wasn’t like he could very well get into any trouble.

* * *

“You’re _absolutely certain_ that you want us going?”

“ ** _Yes,_** Lovino. Go. Poland is going. So should you and Veneziano.”

“We’ll stay in Rome if you really want us too.”

“I know you would,” the Vatican told him from the other end of the phone. “That’s why I’m telling you to go.”

Romano checked his hair again.

“It’s _Conclave-_ ”

“I am _perfectly_ able to take care of myself. I will not _die_ if you leave me alone for _one day_ to go to the wedding. I have done this before.”

“I’m _making sure_ that you don’t _actually_ want us around and aren’t sending us away so you don’t feel _guilty_ or some shit about making us miss the wedding.”

“ _Lovino._ GO.”

The Vatican hung up on him, stopping any further argument.

Romano set his phone on silent and snapped it shut, dropping it in his pocket.

“Veneziano!” he yelled. “Get _down_ here, we’re going to be _late!_ ”

Footsteps pattered down the stairs.

 _“About damn time!”_ Lovino said, moving from the living room to the hallway. “Get in-”

He stopped.

“Who the fuck are _you?_ ”

The little boy with dirty blond hair and hazel eyes stared at him for a second, and then promptly fled back up the stairs, screaming:

_“Il y a un homme et il utilise de **vulgarités!** ”_

Romano stared after for a moment.

 _“Why_ does this child speak _FRENCH?”_ he yelled up the stairs.

“ _Oče!_ ” someone else screeched.

“ _Fratello!_ ” Feliciano called. “Stop screaming, you’re scaring the children!”

Romano sputtered for a moment.

“THERE’S MORE THAN _ONE_ OF THEM?”

“Be nicer to your new brothers and sisters, Lovino!”

Romano froze.

Feliciano appeared at the top of the stairs, _dripping_ children.

“What. The. _Fuck._ ”

 _“Lovino,”_ Feliciano said disapprovingly, frowning. “Stop swearing around the children; you’ll teach them bad habits!”

They stood in silence for a few minutes just staring at each other from opposite ends of the staircase, and then Lovino realized he’d been holding his breath out of anger.

That was stupid.

“There was only one of them last night!” he exclaimed accusingly, pointing at Südtirol.

“Well, now there’s _four_ of them!”

_“How can there be four of them!”_

“Because we had three more autonomous regions!”

Romano sucked in a deep breath.

 _“Veneziano-”_ he started, gritting his teeth.

Feliciano bounded down the stairs as best he could with small children clinging to him.

“You already know Südtirol!” he said happily. “This is Carlo-”

He tugged the dirty blonde boy from earlier forward.

“He’s Valle d’Aosta!”

“Vallée d'Aoste,” Carlo said.

Lovino glared at the interloper.

“And Friuli. Lurinz.”

“Friûl,” Lurinz said, correcting him.

Südtirol squirmed in Veneziano’s arms and he put her down- she had gotten a little bigger over the past few weeks, and wasn’t as easy to hold anymore.

“And _her?_ ” Romano asked, looking directly at the other girl his brother was holding.

 _“Oh!”_ Feliciano exclaimed, and the expression Romano had privately dubbed _‘lovesick idiot’_ appeared on his face. “This is his twin sister!”

“Venezia Guilia.”

“Mh- _hm!_ ” he replied brightly, nodding enthusiastically. “Isn’t she _adorable?”_

“She’s really fucking tiny.”

_“ **Lovino!** ”_

_“She is!”_

“Don’t listen to your _Zio_ , Zuliana,” Feliciano cooed at her. “He’s just being grumpy, like always.”

Zuliana looked at Romano, and then back at Veneziano questioningly.

“ _Zhio_ , _Pop_ _à_?”

“ _Manca_ , _Julia_! _Strabón_!”

“And she speaks _Venetian_ ,” Romano said testily.

“Of _course_ she speaks Venetian! She’s _Venezia_ Guilia!”

They kept standing there in silence- Veneziano waiting for his brother to accept the new additions to their household; Romano trying not to get irritated about the absolute _mess_ this was going to make when they had to tell the government about the new Nations.

“Feliciano?”

“Yeah?”

“We’re going to be really fucking late if we don’t leave _right now._ ”

* * *

Germany looked down at the small child doubtfully.

“So- which one is his name?”

“Catalunya!” the boy declared.

 _“Nooo!”_ Spain said, holding out his hands pleadingly. “ _Catalo_ _n_ _ia!_ _En Español_ , Amans!”

“ _A Catal_ _à_ , Antonio!”

“I’m the one with the country, Catalonia!” he replied cheerfully, ruffling the boy’s hair.“ _I_ get to order _you_ around!”

Germany refrained from sighing and looked at the girl who’d accompanied them.

“And you are?”

“Galicia,” she said proudly. “Uxía Castrillión.”

“ _Hallo_ , Galicia- ah, _Hola_.”

Galicia shook her head violently.

“Mh-mn, _Se_ _ñor_. _Ola_.”

“ _Ola_ ,” Germany repeated dutifully.

 _“Deutschland!”_ an excited voice screamed. “ _Deutschland Deutschland Deutschland_!”

Ludwig turned slightly and scooped Südtirol up before she could slam into his knees. She laughed delightedly and clamped onto his neck.

He couldn’t help chuckling a little.

“ _Hallo_ , _kuschelbär_.”

“ _Deutschland_ ,” she said happily, snuggling as close as she could.

“You two are so _cute!_ ” Spain gushed; and Germany attempted to fade from view. “Oh-”

He leaned down to look at Galicia.

“Uxía, you see that man over there?” he told her, pointing to Romano. “That’s your _Padre,_ go say hi!”

A few moments later, there was a loud: “ _What the-_ no. No;  _Antonio, **no.**_ ”

Spain waved at him.

“Come meet Catalonia!” he called.

_“I am NOT helping you raise more children!”_

Chuckling, Antonio said his goodbyes and took Amans off to meet Lovino.

 “Ludwig! You found Südtirol!”

Ludwig smiled a little.

“She found me, _Spatzi_.”

Feliciano reached up and tweaked her nose.

“Don’t go running off like that, Vittoria! I might lose you!”

“Why weren’t you watching her better?” Ludwig demanded. “Feliciano-”

He patted Germany’s arm comfortingly.

“Shhh, stop worrying so much, Ludwig. They’re not going to get into any trouble here-”

His smile got sly.

“-it’s the ones we’re _not_ around to look after that we should be worrying about.”

Ludwig raised an eyebrow.

“Heinrich,” Feliciano said, and pulled his phone out to show Ludwig a text message conversation.

_‘Babbo, I met somebody from Venice in Stuttgart recently so if you’ve been bothered by people that’s why’_

_‘What? What happened?’_

_‘I accidentally started talking to her in Venetian and she got suspicious and asked a bunch of questions and I kind of told her about you I know I’m not supposed to unless I know them well sorry but she already kind of knew about you so’_

_‘YOU saw a pretty woman and you PANICKED! Heinrich! Who was she tell me I bet I know her family’_

_‘BABBO NO’_

“Don’t tease him like that,” Ludwig scolded.

“But he _did!_ And he told her about you too.”

_“What.”_

* * *

Keld Schumacher sat at his desk and stared at the still-unopened manila envelope. He had no idea how or why he had been picked for this job, but he had taken it readily enough, so surely there was something to it?

That’s what he decided to believe, anyway, while making a mental note about the fact that it was not grounded in much of anything at the moment.

He opened the envelope and pulled out the top sheet of paper. It appeared to be a contact list, giving names and addresses and e-mails and phone numbers. Schumacher started to read down the list, only for the first two names to give him pause.

_Gilbert Beilschmidt, formerly Kingdom of Prussia; and Ludwig Beilschmidt, Federal Republic of Germany_

‘Beilschmidt’? _That man who was just- he said it was his_ wife’s _name._

He’d also said that he knew these people.

_Surely not-?_

He pulled out his pad of paper and tore off the pages of notes on top, putting them in his desk drawer to file away later. Schumacher stared at the paper for a moment, trying to come up with a title for this case. Usually he just put the client’s name at the top, but there were multiple people here and he _had_ been warned about state secrets…

Finally he settled for simply titling the whole thing _‘Client UN-Z’_. Anyone who might see his notes would likely be familiar with him and simply assume that the abbreviation was for someone’s name, and hopefully would respect client confidentiality and not look any further.

He drew a line under the title and skipped down a bit before writing _‘R_ _émy B’_ , drawing a line next to it, and the writing _‘Mevr. B’_ on the other side. After a few moment’s consideration, he drew a line upwards and wrote _‘G.B./L.B.?’_ on top of it. Off to the side, he wrote _‘Can they have children? Can I talk to them?’_.

Not particularly satisfied but leaving the question alone for now, he continued onwards.

_Yekateryna Braginskaya, Ukraine… Ivan Braginski, Russian Federation_

_‘Currently trouble in Federation.’_

_Eiliv Brynjarsson, Kingdom of Norway… Geir Brynjarsson, Iceland_

_‘E.B.+G.B.- brothers?’_ and a bit further off _‘This sort of thing is common? Group therapy possible.’_

_Francis Bonnefoy, France… Antonio F Carreido, Kingdom of Spain… Roderich Edelstein, Republic of Austria… Raivis Galante, Republic of Lativa… Erzsébet Héderváry, Hungary_

_‘Austro-Hungarian Empire. Relationship status?’_

_Arthur Kirkland, England_

_‘What about Sc., Ier., Wal.?’_

_Mathias N Køhler, Kingdom of Denmark… Toris Laurinaitis, Republic of Lithuania- Feliks Łukasiewicz, Republic of Poland… Berwald Oxenstierna, Kingdom of Sweden_

_‘Eluf O. related? If so, easy access more probable; issue likely.’_

_Cristoforo Pietri, Vatican City/Holy See_

_‘GO TO CHURCH. Why him- Greif? R_ _émy B. gave number for Giovanna P. at Vatican. Too big for coincidence. Chastity issues? Do not want to deal with religious doubt/conflict. Also said cousin-in-law. How does that work? More diagrams possible; if so get new paper.’_

_Wehrner Rothslöwe, Grand Duchy of Luxembourg… Timo Väinämöinen, Republic of Finland_

_‘Eluf O., PM of Finland- Get B.O.+T.V. together?’_

_Feliciano C Vargas, Republic of Italy (Veneziano); and Lovino A Vargas, Republic of Italy (Romano)_

_‘F.C.V.+L.A.V.- definitely brothers. Why are there two of them? Look up ‘Veneziano’ and ‘Romano’, special meaning/titles in Italian?’_

_Adele Charlotte Zeghers, Kingdom of Belgium… Falko Zeghers, the Netherlands_

_‘A.C.Z.+F.Z.- siblings. How do I speak to F.Z., I am Dutch. Consider.’_

_Liesl H _Zürcher_ , Principality of Lichtenstein_

Schumacher remembered something.

_‘Royal Wedding Today! M.N.K.+L.H.Z.- how does this affect relationship?’_

And then finally:

_Sebastian _Zürcher_ , Swiss Confederation_

_‘L.H.Z.+S.Z.- siblings, M.N.K. in-law? Family counseling needed?’_

Speaking of family counseling…

Schumacher skipped back up towards the little relationship diagram he’d made at the beginning and wrote _‘Prussia no longer extant. Why G.B.? Existential crisis possible. Militaristic. Check on status of Prussia re: Nazis. Support y/n, Frederick the Great inspiration. Conflict of G.B. and R.E. over L.B. historical, still going?’_

He looked over his notes- he hadn’t even _seen_ any of them yet and already there were so many questions!- and then considered the supplementary information that was still in the envelope. He wasn’t sure if wanted to tackle that yet, because surely it would just lead to yet _more_ tantalizing questions; and it felt wrong to call Rémy Beilschmidt so soon. And he’d never even _met_ the other two people.

Keld Schumacher shifted uncomfortably in his seat and decided to call his sister. 

* * *

 

Nikephoros Karpusi finally _–finally-_ managed to escape the Neapolitan traffic and noise and general chaos and drove out of the city. His car struggled slightly with the heights between Naples and Pozzuoli, but soon enough he was parked outside his father-in-law’s ancient villa, on the crest of the south slope of Camaldoli Hill within reasonable walking distance of the Hermitage of Monte Giove.

He walked into the house and was immediately met by the sight of a small child attempting to stand on tip-toe and look at the household niche altar to the Virgin Mary and St. Januarius.

“Akakios,” Nikephoros told him. “If you need help, you can just ask.”

Agion Oros looked over and shook his head.

“I can manage.”

Nikephoros shook his head slightly and entered the main living room.

It was a huge spacious area, made by converting the open-air atrium in the original Roman villa into an enclosed space- the compluvium had been turned into a simple skylight, and the pool underneath it had been plugged, enlarged, and re-tiled to serve as a small, recessed seating unit.

Currently, it was serving as a play area.

The Cyclades was trying to scramble over the lip of the converted impluvium, grabbing at Thrace’s pant leg to gain leverage. Thrace was not happy about this, and expressed his displeasure by trying to shake his smaller sister off. Greek Macedonia snapped at both of them that she was _trying_ to play with the baby and that they both need to _shut up._

Giuditta swooped in and intervened, picking up her infant daughter and moving to scold Thrace for not helping his sister; but Nikephoros ignored them for the moment to kneel by the couch where his father lay.

“ _Geia_ , _Patέra_ ,” he said quietly. “How have you been today?”

He reached over and took Greece’s hand, feeling the slight warmth in it, and the bones that were becoming too prominent beneath the skin.

“Work was all right. I spent a lot of time wishing I was here instead, like always. It’s good that I’m so talented at math, otherwise the tour company might have gone out of business by now because I was too distracted to do the books correctly.”

Seborga was here, too, he noticed now- over by the wall, examining the frescoes that had been repainted and redesigned countless of times. They were starting to flake slightly and dust the mosaic floor- his father-in-law would have to redo them again soon.

“We’ve been getting less money lately. Everyone else around here has, too. Romano has been trying to hide it when Ditta and I are over, but he’s been coughing a lot lately. I don’t know how his brother is doing, but if he’s getting sick then Veneziano probably will be soon, too.”

Sicily was napping in a chair that had been moved out into the small hallway connecting the atrium with the courtyard garden in the back- the heavy wooden French doors had been opened to let in more light and the slight breeze off the bay. Crete was nearby, awake and reading.

“Apollonia’s grown some. She’s nearly old enough to start talking now. Sometimes we wonder what her first word will be, but if she’s here all the time with Crete and Sicily watching her while Ditta and I are at work, well… it will probably be an interesting one.”

Nikephoros sighed and looked at his father’s slack face for a few moments, tired. He leaned forward and rested his head on Greece’s stomach.

“Please just wake up _, Patέra._ ”

* * *

Liechtenstein smiled at the ambassador sitting in the second row from the front of Vaduz Cathedral- she couldn’t remember where he was from at the moment- and slid into her first-row aisle seat next to Denmark.

“How nervous was yours?” she asked him quietly.

“A wreck,” Denmark said. “It was ridiculous. I had to remind myself that I was looking at the man who always wants to hear about my Viking days.”

“Well, he’s getting married. It’s a big life change, Mathias.”

Denmark snorted.

“Absolutely _refused_ to be cheered up; even after I gave him the speech I gave him on his coronation day.”

Liesl tilted her head a little.

“What was it?”

“My _‘Why You Could Never Possibly Be as Bad as Cristoffer the Second’_ speech. No clue why, it _always_ cheers people up!”

Liesl, who had heard a few rumors about exactly how _much_ steel was involved in said speech, silently agreed that people _were_ probably very cheered up when he’d finished it.

“Mathias,” she said carefully. “I think that possibly flourishing your old weapons everywhere didn’t help his nerves. You didn’t bring any of them with you, did you?”

“Of course not!”

Some good news, that.

“Well, hopefully no one’s nerves affect the ceremony.”

Denmark suddenly seemed to shrink a little.

“Yeah… about that- where’s your _brother?_ ”

Liechtenstein smiled slightly.

“Over there,” she said, indicating the end of the opposite row.

Denmark leaned out from his seat a little.

“Can’t see him,” he said.

“I had him seated next to Austria and Hungary,” Liesl told him. “It should keep him quiet while he and Austria try to outdo each other in politeness. And neither of them want to make Hungary upset.”

She paused.

“And I got the Vatican to tell him he’s not allowed to have a gun in the cathedral. And I went through his luggage when he got here and donated all his bullets to the _Landespolizei_. They were very grateful; and I think I finally got them enough types of bullets they don’t have the equipment for that they can justify buying a few more guns.”

Denmark quirked an eyebrow at her last statement.

“They keep a tally sheet of my brother’s contributions,” Liechtenstein explained. “He tends to fill up two or three a year.”

Mathias snorted, then exploded in raucous laughter.

Liesl sat there, smiling slightly.

After a couple minutes, he got himself mostly back under control.

 _“Damn,”_ Mathias said breathlessly, clapping her on the back. “I am gonna _enjoy_ this personal union, you sneaky little imp!”

The Archbishop of Vaduz, who had ascended to the altar area a few meters in front of them, was glaring at them slightly. Liechtenstein waved at him and gently pushed Denmark back into his seat.

The Archbishop spent a few moments longer giving the two of them a disapproving look before starting the ceremony.

* * *

Irene stared out over the ocean and took a deep breath of the cool air. The stars glinted silver in the perfectly black sky, providing the only illumination for the ghostly-gray, rocky beach. The silence was broken only by the soft lapping of waves against the shoreline.

Arthur was seated cross-legged on a boulder, eyes closed, hands folded. The bag was tucked away between two rocks. The sorcerer had told her to wait- and so, she waited.

The cliffs towered dark and foreboding above them. Irene simply could not tell how they were going to get over them; though it wasn’t like she actually knew where they were going. She hugged herself a little tighter to stave off the chill.

The clatter of falling, shifting rock echoed over the beach suddenly and Irene gasped, jumping slightly. She turned around quickly and came face-to-face with a man in a pristine suit and perfectly-combed hair.

“Well, what do you want?” the man asked.

Irene just stared. The man was so… out of place. He looked like he should be in an office somewhere, working through his lunch break, getting home late, not on a rocky beach at the edge of a place called Honalee.

“Jackie,” Arthur greeted the man, standing.

The man frowned.

 _“Jacob,”_ he corrected him. “I haven’t been called Jackie since I was kid.”

“We need to go up through Phwffio’s cave, Jackie.”

 _“Jacob,”_ the man complained. “Jacob _Paper._ Why should I help you if you can’t even get my name right?”

“We brought you a sandwich,” Arthur told him, offering up the wax paper bundle.

Jackie Paper stared at it hungrily, like he hadn’t tasted anything in years. Irene moved slightly closer to Arthur.

“What sort?” he asked.

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

“Does it matter?”

Jackie’s eyes flicked between the bundle and the sorcerer’s face a few times, and then tried to grab the sandwich.

Arthur pulled it back before he could.

“You know how this works, Jackie. _After_ we get to the meadow.”

 _“Jacob,”_ Jackie said again, and started walking off. Arthur picked up the bag he’d brought along and motioned for Irene to follow.

* * *

Cristoforo sat in the Vatican Archives, idly flipping through file boxes of old reports and missives. While Conclave was in session, he was officially off-duty, and with a decent amount of Europe at the wedding, there wasn’t anyone to keep him company while he whiled away the hours wandering his domain.

Soft laughter filtered through the stacks, and he recognized his daughter’s voice.

Curious, he put the papers down and walked in the direction of the noise, checking the rows.

Five shelves of filing boxes in, he saw Giovanna- his daughter, in a strange man’s arms, her lips pressed to his.

 _“Excuse me,”_ he said loudly.

The man jumped, badly startled. Giovanna pulled away quickly, holding her nose.

“Santiano!” she complained.

“Sorry, sorry,” he muttered quickly, trying to back down the aisle away from the Vatican. “I’m _extremely_ sorry, Your Eminence, sir, I’ll just-”

“Gianna, who is this man?”

Giovanna grabbed Santiano’s arm to keep him from retreating any further.

“This is my boyfriend, _Patre_.”

“Uh-” the man in question started to say.

“Since when?”

“Since three months ago, _Patre_. Now please go away so I can kiss Santino some more.”

“Gianna, you are not kissing him again until I know who he is.”

_“Patre!”_

_“Gia-nna!_ ” he mocked. “You hear how annoying that sounds? You sound like Veneziano when he is trying to get me to come to one of his family dinners!”

“Uh… you know each other?” Santiano asked.

“Of _course_ I know him, Santino- he’s my father!”

The man looked a little shell-shocked. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

“And Israel is my mother,” Giovanna told him, and placed a finger over his lips. “But _shhh_!”

Santiano made a sort of strangled sound.

“Giovanna, you still have not introduced us,” Cristoforo reminded his daughter.

She sighed.

“Santino, this my father- Cristoforo Pietri, _Citt_ _à_ _del Vaticano e il Santa Sede_. _Patre_ , this is Santiano Miccichelo- the _Patriarca_ sponsored his education if you need references now go away, _sī vis_!” 

“Are you sure you’re allowed to talk to him like that?” Santiano managed to say.

“She is her mother’s daughter, she is always like this,” the Vatican told him. “If you have been dating for three months you should have figured that out already.”

Santiano slipped out of Giovanna’s grasp and started backing up again. He tried to say something a few times, but gave up and ran off.

Giovanna groaned in exasperation.

“ _Patre!_ Stop _doing_ this!”

“I didn’t know you _had_ a boyfriend this time, Gianna.”

“They meet you and then they run off! He was close to proposing to me!”

“If you were getting that serious you should have told me sooner!” her father scolded.

“Stop worrying about my virtue, _Patre_ , I know how to take care of it.”

“And the last man who proposed to you was _completely_ unsuitable!”

“How I was I supposed to know Ricardo wasn’t really Catholic? He _said_ he was Catholic! He came to church with me and knew how everything worked! And don’t think I forgot what you did to Enzio! He’s a sweet man and didn’t deserve that sort of grilling interview!”

“He was a very nice person, but he was _gay,_ ” Cristoforo said. “He had no business lying to himself about it and I made sure he knew it.”

“Enzio was _not_ gay, _Patre_ ; I don’t care what you say.”

“He is absolutely gay, he ran off with _signor_ Monti’s son; the one who was apprenticed to the head gardener at Gandolfo.”

 _“What?”_ Giovanna asked, astonished. “ _Signor_ Bianci’s assistant? _Really?_ ”

“Really.”

“Hm! Well, Santino isn’t like that, _Patre_. He’s a good Catholic man and very gentlemanly and traditional and respectful and there is absolutely nothing about him that you can object to.”

“He ran away from me,” her father reminded her.

“That’s because no one wants the Catholic Church and Israel for in-laws, _Patre_. But he wants me so he’ll resign himself to it by the end of the week.”

“You sound very certain of that, Gianna.”

“I want to get married and I am marrying my Santino!” Giovanna declared. “And I already invited him to the Christmas party at Switzerland’s and he said he was coming so he _is_ coming. He will see how much more insane the rest of Europe is and then will be _grateful_ to have you as a father-in-law!”

The Vatican sighed.

“Gianna…”

“And _Vater_ can threaten him if he has to.”

“Gianna, that is _not-_ ”

“And then I will introduce him to _Zio_ Lovi and _Zio_ Feli and _Onkel_ Ludo and _Tio_ Toño and they will do the same thing, because all my uncles are very nice men who will keep him from doing stupid things like dumping me and can point out what a nice person you are. And then I bring Cass over and he can get his ear talked off.”

“Gianna, this does not sound like a good plan. It sounds like you are trying to press-gang him.”

“I’m getting a little desperate at this point, _Patre_ ; I want to start a family. Get married, have children! Ditta is married! Zell is married! Nico is trying his hand at dating again and Vasco has to fight women and men off just to get to his work every day! I am going to get in on this and I will _not_ let you stop me!”

“I’m not trying to stop you Gianna, I just want to make sure you don’t traumatize the man. Also, he does work for me.”

Giovanna smiled and kissed his cheek.

“I know what I am doing with my Santino, _Patre_ ; my uncles taught me all about romance and love. And I’m just bringing him to the Christmas party; unless someone overstocks the cocktails like they did last year there won’t be any traumatizing going on. He just needs some time to adjust.”

Cristoforo sighed and waved her off.

“Fine, fine. Go; chase after your sweetheart and talk him around.”

His daughter smiled wider and started walking quickly off down the aisle.

“But I will still be interviewing him!” the Vatican called after her.

“ _Sīc_ , _Patre_!”

“And asking the _Patriarca_ about him!”

_“Sīc, Patre!”_

“ _And_ the Swiss Guard!”

**_“Patre!”_ **

* * *

 

_“Keld!”_

Schumacher tapped his fingers on the desk nervously and hoped this wouldn’t get him in trouble somehow.

“ _Hallo_ , Hanna,” he replied. “I, uh- I know you’re good with strange things, and… I have a strange thing to ask you about.”

 _“Really?”_ his sister asked, and he could just picture her, sitting up straighter in her chair in front of the computer in her study, surrounded by newspaper clippings and blurry photographs and entirely too much red string-

“Something finally convinced you I’m right?”

“No,” Schumacher said, snappier than he’d intended. “I still don’t agree with you, Hanna.”

His sister snorted.

“Fine. _Be_ like that. You’ll say something different someday. What’s this _‘strange thing’_?”

Schumacher closed his eyes and steeled himself.

“What do you know about _de Zielenvolk_?”

“Keld, you are in _absolutely_ the right place!” Hanna exclaimed happily. “What’s been going on with your head for you to call me about something like this? Keep doing it!”

“I was just thinking. And I don’t want anything from those conspiracy theories of yours, I just want facts.”

“Okay, first, they are not _‘conspiracy theories’_. They are factually supported ideas that the public does not like because of the efforts of various groups to bias the world against us and the search for the truth. And second, there’s not a whole lot of separating _‘fact’_ from speculation here. There’s never been a whole lot written about _de Zielenvolk_ in the first place, so anyone who’s _really_ interested has to synthesize since no one ever seems to get to talk to them. They never give interviews, they never talk to the press, even the biographies of Presidents and monarchs barely even mention them; and there’s _got_ to be a reason for that Keld, I’m telling you. _They’re all hiding something._ ”

 _‘State secrets’- NO, I am_ not _having this thought! I am_ not _thinking like her!_

Schumacher picked up his pen again and wrote _‘Lack of reliable information’_ in his notes, drawing a line between the notes he’d taken while reading the list and the notes he was going to take now.

“But you’re going to start arguing with me if I keep talking about that and I want to keep you on the phone,” Hanna continued. “So, what do you know about them already?”

_Their full names, addresses, and complete contact information; which I’m pretty sure no one else in the world but the UN has. Also they might have children._

“They represent their countries. They show up at state events in pictures and on TV. Don’t they countersign treaties?”

“They’re immortal, they can resurrect, they fight in wars, teleport, have superhuman strength, and hang out with aliens.”

Schumacher stared hard at his wall.

“Hanna, more than half of that can’t _possibly_ be true.”

“They’re definitely immortal, Keld, that’s a well-documented but obscure fact. The original copies of European peace treaties going back _centuries_ have the same names in the same handwriting; it’s just the language and titles that change. They’ve been painted for even longer; and have shown up in official photographs ever since there’ve _been_ photographs. They don’t age- well, it seems like they age from small children to about twenty- or thirty-something if they don’t die, and then it stops. It takes longer than it does for humans, but it happens.”

“That’s…”

“Keld, to have a country you’ve got to have a _Zielvolk_ to represent it. There’s no _point_ if they go around dying every sixty years or something. You’d never get a good country going.”

“All right, fine,” Schumacher said grudgingly. “That one actually makes sense. As long as there’s a country, there’s a _Zielvolk_.”

“Amazing, Keld, I’m convincing you of something! You’re making my day here!”

“You’ve still got a _lot_ of convincing to do, Hanna.”

“Fine, fine. The next one’s easy. They go to war when their countries do. No brainer, right?”

“I suppose so,” he said, and wrote _‘PTSD? Never before had treatments. Lived very long time. What have I gotten myself into??? Read up on treatments.’_

“Okay, onto the resurrection bit.”

“That only happens in _stories,_ Hanna,” Schumacher said, then hesitated and circled _‘GO TO CHURCH’_ a couple of times. He did _not_ want to say something like that during his appointment and end up in a theological debate or get ranted at.

“This info only comes from war stories, true, but you’ve already accepted that they’re immortal.”

“Immortal means they _don’t die._ No death, therefore no resurrection.”

“It’s immortality of a sort where they die and then come right back, far as we can tell. Plenty of war stories about a _Zielvolk_ jumping on a bomb or taking a bullet for somebody and then getting right back up.”

“Uh- _huh_.”

“You don’t sound convinced, Keld. Do _not_ start talking about hallucinations brought on by high stress again; we’ve already _had_ that argument. Here, you agree they’re human-looking, right?”

“That’s _obvious,_ Hanna.”

“Yeah; so then it follows the stuff that would kill a human body would kill them too, right? But you’ve already also agreed that as long as there’s a _Zielvolk_ there’s a country, or possibly the other way around, so what’s the best way to deal with that? Automatically undying.”

“But if they’re dead how are they supposed to-”

“I don’t _know,_ Keld, _you’re_ the one in a love affair with ‘science’. _You_ figure it out.”

 _Oh I_ will _be figuring some things out._

“I still don’t believe you; and there is _no_ way you’re going to convince me of the other things you said.”

“Teleportation.”

“Let me guess- _on the battlefield._ Hallucinations brought on by stress.”

“Keld we’re _not_ going there again, you remember how that argument turned out?”

“Yes, I do. But I still think I’m right.”

“Well, I _know_ I’m right. Your computer on?”

Schumacher swept his hand over the mousepad and his laptop jolted out of its low-power state.

“Yes.”

“Good. I’m sending you stuff, get your e-mail open.”

* * *

Tai had, by this point, taken three separate trains, and was currently wandering around Wudaokou.

Possibly he’d also managed to lose his government minders. He wasn’t too clear on that point; but he hadn’t seen any in a while. In any case, he’d decided that he liked it here- it was nice to hear something other than Chinese, even if it was pretty much Korean- but every so often he’d hear a snippet of English, or hear an inflection that reminded him of the way his mother sounded when she was translating for her colleagues on a conference call.

He’d also been forced to come to the conclusion that he was completely lost.

Kicking at a stray bit of litter, he scowled and thought about how this was not how he’d planned for his adventure to go.

After a while wandering aimlessly and nearly getting crushed a few times along Chengfu Lu, Tai had to admit defeat and resign himself to stopping somewhere and calling his grandfather for a pick-up.

The nearest place was one of the many South Korean-owned shops that had given the district the nickname ‘Koreatown’. It was a coffeehouse, the perennial favorite of college students everywhere, and Tai was able to find a seat easily enough despite the somewhat-crowded conditions, sliding into a booth opposite an intent-looking young man who was pounding away on his computer.

Tai pulled his phone out and prodded it to life.

“You look lost.”

He glanced up at the college student on the computer, who had stopped his work to examine the boy who’d come to sit with him.

Tai looked back at the phone for a split second, then back the student.

It wasn’t like he really _wanted_ to call his grandfather…

“Yeah. I’m lost. How do you get to Tiananmen Square from here?”

The college student stared at him for a long moment, and Tai had started to backtrack to make sure he hadn’t suddenly tried talking to him in Hungarian or something when he spoke again.

“Wow,” the college student said, blinking a few times. “Where is _that_ accent from?”

Tai grimaced. He’d already known his Mandarin was bad, but… well, so much for being a ‘native speaker’.

“Amsterdam,” he admitted.

“Long way from home. You’re in an exchange program?”

The man sounded doubtful, and Tai didn’t blame him. He’d be in a university in a year or two, and he looked like it.

“No. Visiting family. Long-term stay with my grandfather.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah,” Tai agreed, and then his phone _ping_ ed in a familiar way. He grabbed it from the table and stared at it for a second, wide-eyed.

“Somebody’s got a _real_ wifi connection!” he exclaimed, stunned. “That’s just- it's  _great_ _!_ ”

Frantically, he started typing out a quick update on his life.

 _‘Found the one place in China with REAL Internet. Exploiting mercilessly!!!_ ’

Seconds later, he was checking every site he could think of, just staring in awe at the pages and pages of unfiltered text and images.

The man across the table smiled wryly and held out his hand.

“Rhee Eun.”

“Wha-oh,” Tai responded distractedly, completely occupied by the sudden return of the Internet into his life. He stuck his hand haphazardly out towards Eun.

“Wang Tai.”

* * *

“You _do_ realize that we’re at a _wedding,_ right?” Ásdís asked. “And not just _any_ wedding- a _royal_ wedding.”

“A royal wedding just means there’s more rich people,” Cassiel answered dismissively; and clapped his hands together. “Now, go schmooze!”

_“No.”_

“Cass, how did you even get us _in_ here?” Øystein asked, looking a little reluctant about his question.

“I was talking to Halya and it turns out she’s coming so I went and g-”

“Just tell me you didn’t do anything illegal,” he interrupted Cassiel hastily.

“I didn’t do anything illegal,” he replied obediently. “Come _on,_ Ásdís!”

“Cassiel, I am _not_ going to ruin this wedding by begging people for money!”

“But it’s not _begging!_ It’s asking.”

“There are better times and places!”

“Ás _dís,_ all the rich people are going up to Vaduz Castle while you argue! We’re going to get left behind!”

“Cass, she’s right,” Øystein cut in. “We’re at a wedding. You don’t go asking people for money at a wedding. That’s _rude._ ”

“But-”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t go mingle and talk about what we do; and hope that someone likes it,” he finished, hoping that diplomacy would work where logic was failing.

Evidently, it seemed to.

“…So long as we’re only talking,” Ásdís agreed grudgingly.

“As long as someone funds us so Ásdís doesn’t spend her whole fortune on titanium,” Cassiel agreed.

Or perhaps the threat of bankruptcy accomplished what logic and diplomacy could not, Øystein reflected a minute or two later. Ásdís had certainly seemed much more enthusiastic about Vaduz Castle after the other man’s remark. The two of them had arrived well ahead of him.

 _Well,_ he told himself with a mental sigh, accepting for the moment his lot in life as he looked around the courtyard of Vaduz Castle at the wedding reception. _Time to find someone to mildly schmooze._

* * *

Zacarías burst through his father’s front door and dashed down the short hallway to the TV room, where he knew Cuba would be at this time of day.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m _so_ sorry _Papá_ you were right and I couldn’t- I can’t-”

He stopped talking, focusing on trying to control his rapid, shallow breathing, and realized that the television was already on, the volume a little low.

 _‘-mocracy is simply not a tenable decision, as our northern neighbors so clearly demonstrated earlier this month,’_ Adán Salcedo Esparza was saying. A little icon in the corner of the screen proclaimed that he was being broadcast live. _‘This show of incompetency from the democratic form of government is by no means a recent discovery. For years, it has stalemated governments in Europe and the Americas as needless arguing and a lack of leadership make government grind to a halt- all in the name of serving the people. At its best, democracy forces those who would work for the good of all to submit to mob rule-’_

Cuba patted the empty seat on the couch next to him, not looking away from the television set.

Zacarías sat down gingerly and glanced at the man on the screen.

_‘-isruptive to the good of the people. Majority rule means that the majority gets to make all the decisions. Where does that leave you, when you are hungry; and no one else is? When you are hurt; and everyone else is healthy? When you have been harmed; but all those around you are untouched? It leaves you an outsider, straining to rise up against the tyranny known so fondly, so falsely, as the will of the pe-’_

“He’s good at this,” Cuba remarked, and Zacarías could hear the anger seething under his tone.

“I’m sorry _, Papá_ ,” he repeated quietly, eyes dropping to the floor. “I thought it would be different this time. That I could help.”

His father turned away from the TV and took Zacarías’s face in his hands.

“Look at me, _hijo_.”

Cuba’s son slowly did so.

Marco looked him straight in the eyes.

_“This is not your fault.”_

A few feet away, Adán Salcedo Esparza continued speaking.

_‘-is why I will be maintaining order as the Guardian of the State until a solution which does not involve such indignities and endanger the well-being of you, of all the strong, proud citizens of the Republic of Cuba, has been discovered.’_

* * *

Irene and Arthur walked for what could have been any length of time at all- despite clambering over rocks and slipping on pebbles and completely losing sight of where they’d come ashore, Irene never felt tired. Jackie Paper was always a few feet ahead, Arthur and the bag only a little behind them.

Eventually, Irene realized that the dark area on the cliff face she’d been taking as a simple recess was really the entrance to a massive cavern.

They climbed over the last few big rocks in there way, and emerged onto what must have been the only sandy part of the beach. It was surprisingly warm underfoot, and, from Irene could tell, at least, made from the same gray rock as the rest of the beach, simply ground down into a fine powder.

Jackie started walking towards the cavern. Arthur hesitated a few moments, long enough for Irene to catch up to him.

“You’ll want to take my hand for this part,” he said, holding one out to her.

Irene took it, and together they walked into the cavern.

It was pitch black the moment they walked inside, despite the soft silvery light from the stars that had illuminated the beach. Irene looked back, and could still see the lit-up sandy area in front of the cliff-

-but there was a sharp line on the ground, where the darkness abruptly started. There was no subtle shading from light to dark- just a point beyond which the light would simply not go.

She looked forward again quickly.

“Keep one hand on the wall,” Arthur whispered to her, and she reached out her free, right hand and found reassuringly smooth, solid stone there, as far as she could extend her arm.

It disappeared suddenly, and for a moment she was disoriented, but then Arthur said “Corner,” and pulled her slightly to the right, and she found the wall again.

“Why doesn’t he get a lamp?” she asked quietly.

“He doesn’t need it. To him, this doesn’t look dark.”

Irene gripped the sorcerer’s hand a little tighter.

“He’s not human?”

“Oh no,” Arthur told her. “Jackie Paper is _completely_ human. He’s as _human_ as it bloody well gets.”

“But-”

“He’s _so_ human he doesn’t see anything strange about this at all.”

“So having the Si-”

Suddenly, the wall fell away again- but this time, there was a little bit of light.

The darkness changed from pitch black to a sort of murky gray color, pierced by shafts of the light from outside through holes in the ceiling. Irene could see Jackie Paper already halfway across the cavern, still hugging the wall.

_Why doesn’t he just-_

She looked into the cavern properly and saw the great beast lying there.

Irene’s throat worked silently. Her mouth refused to open, and she couldn’t even make a sound, despite how wide her eyes had gotten.

“Yes, that’s a dragon,” Arthur told her, tugging on her hand. “Come on.”

Irene walked dazedly behind him, fixated on the giant pile of hard, green scales illuminated in the patches of light, and the massive wings laying, folded, along the dragon’s side, and the slightly-too-warm, twisting air that echoed slightly in the cavern, like the inside of a lung, as the dragon breathed in and out.

“But it’s a _dragon,_ ” she managed to squeak eventually.

“That’s Phwffio,” Arthur said. “He won’t hurt you.”

“Because he’s _asleep._ ”

“He wouldn’t hurt you even if he was awake, and he spends most of the time sleeping now.”

They were most of the way through the cavern now, brushing against the side of Phwffio’s wing. It was hot, and slightly rough.

“Jackie-”

“Can’t see him.”

“But it’s a bloody great _dragon!_ ” Irene burst out, and immediately covered her mouth. The sound, muffled on one side by Phwffio’s body, didn’t echo as it should have.

“He used to be able to see him,” Arthur said quietly, pulling her along on the last bit of open space between them and the smaller tunnel Jackie was waiting impatiently outside of. “When he _could_ see him, Jackie and Phwffio would fly around Honalee every day, looking at the ships and calling on Kings and Queens and Good Princes. They had great adventures together, seeing everything this land has to offer- the sprawling forests, and the waterfalls, and the rolling plains; the great castles and tiny little towns and towering mountains and all the secret, wonderful places.”

Irene slowly lowered her hand.

“Why would anyone stop that?” she breathed.

In the light, she could see the sorcerer’s stare, intent on their guide.

“He grew up. Jackie Paper grew up into Jacob Paper, and Phwffio has slept away his heartbroken days ever since.”

* * *

Schumacher opened the e-mail from his sister.

“Okay, Figure One in the presentation,” she said over the phone; and he clicked on the attached file listed as that. It opened a movie player and thirty seconds of grainy World War II-era footage rolled across his screen. The footage faded to black and Schumacher realized that it must have been someone’s amateur editing of an old home video, because plain, simple white lettering appeared and proclaimed the clip to be of _‘The United States of America, May 1942’_.

“So he dragged a car,” Schumacher told his sister. “There are regular people who can do that.”

“Yeah, but _he_ had been doing that for four hours _straight_ already. _And then he kept going._ ”

“Prove it. Do you have the other four hours?”

“No, the soldier only filmed that bit.”

“Anyone can say anything about a bit of video.”

“Fine, _don’t_ trust me.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, Hanna, it’s that I don’t trust your sources.”

His sister snorted.

“No, you don’t trust _me._ Figure Two.”

Schumacher opened the second attachment, and was greeted with a slightly-blurry photograph, again with America as the subject.

“Hanna, that is the _worst_ Photoshop job I’ve ever seen.”

“Keld, that is _not_ a Photoshop. A personal friend took that picture. _Aliens exist._ ”

“Hanna,” Schumacher said patiently. “I know you’re… _open_ to a lot of things, but that is _clearly_ a stock B-Movie alien.”

“Except it’s _real. There is truth to the government-extraterrestrial complex._ They’re covering up a mass alien invasion sometime between the end of World War Two and 1970.”

“ _Little Grey Men,_ Hanna.”

“Okay, _fine,_ you want to be that way. Enjoy the rest of the stuff I sent you.”

She hung up.

Schumacher sighed and closed the attached file with the ‘alien’ photo in it. There were still plenty of others, and since Hanna had gone through the trouble to dig them all up, well, he might as well look at them.

Looking at the file names, he got the feeling that maybe Hanna had a whole lesson on this topic.

That was a little scary.

He clicked on _‘Figure Three’_.

It was another picture, a very old-looking black and white one. Again, there was America, seated on someone’s porch, in old dress clothes, surrounded by other people in similar outfits. A scrawl on the picture’s border had been deciphered by some typed text in the opposite corner: _‘America, Party at Lee Plantation, 1857’_.

 _‘Figure Four’_ was another video clip, this one looking like security footage. A few moments in, a red dot labeled _‘France’_ appeared. Immediately afterwards, the doors of the room burst open and the words _‘Police Raid of Brothel’_ appeared at the top of the screen. The red dot followed one of the figures back and forth across the camera’s field of vision while to police herded up everyone in the room. _‘France’_ moved towards the ring of police. There seemed to be an argument for a moment before _‘France’_ pulled something out. The police stepped aside for the man and the clip faded to a black screen with _‘Above The Law- Why?’_ plastered across it.

Schumacher frowned at that. How did anyone get their hands on surveillance footage? Feeling slightly uneasy, he clicked on _‘Figure Five’_.

This was more video, likely from a phone camera. There were a few seconds of innocuous things- a group of friends posing in front of some landmark- and then all of a sudden there was gunfire. There was some screaming and blurred footage as whoever was holding the phone whirled around to find the source. The camera steadied somewhat to reveal a shortish man standing protectively in front of a young woman about his height, pointing a gun in the general direction of another man, lying on the ground. The woman was screaming at him and tugging on his arm, and he turned towards her and they started arguing while the police came. The footage stilled –clearly this was the part where the amateur movie editing came in- and a screenshot from a website appeared next to the man with the gun. It was zeroed in on a photo captioned _‘Sebastian _Zürcher_ , Swiss Confederation’_.

It was clear the point to be made was _‘this is the same man’_ \- and it was ( _nearly,_ Schumacher reminded himself) unquestionable that there had been no mistake in that conjecture.

 The screenshot shrank and disappeared only to be replaced by another one, this one showing a picture of _‘Liesl Hohenheim _Zürcher_ , Principality of Liechtenstein’_. That screenshot, too, disappeared, and the footage started up again, running until Switzerland, Liechtenstein, and the man were all visible before pausing again. The words _‘Never prosecuted’_ appeared, with an arrow pointing to Switzerland. _‘Asking for directions’_ materialized above the man on the ground, who had staggered up, apparently shaken but unhurt.

Schumacher paused the video on his own and stared at it for a while before picking up his pen and hesitantly writing _‘S.Z.- trigger-happy? Overly defensive? Jumpiness/nerves/flashbacks re: PTSD? Check on authenticity of events. Family counseling possibly hazardous to health.’_

He sat staring at _‘Figure Six’_ for a long time, too. It was a partial scan of a page from some book on historical photography, probably for a college course. The main focus was a picture captioned _‘Figure 4.5- Rare example of color photography in World War Two. Note the slightly desaturated quality’_. In the original book, someone had written _‘Unidentified Nazis and others- find some names for extra kick to presentation’_. On the scanned picture, someone had used a photo editing program to label the whole thing.

_‘From left to right: Finland, Bulgaria, Romania, Prussia, Germany, Austria, Hungary, Italy#1, Italy#2’_

 He thought about state secrets and what sorts of things governments wouldn’t want people remembering or knowing; and had a few disturbing thoughts.

 _‘L.B., G.B., R.E.? re: Nazis, Neonazis, white supremacists. L.B. visibly ‘Aryan’; also R_ _émy B.,’_ he wrote as the picture printed out. _‘R_ _émy B. exchanged likely-French surname for his wife’s German. I am also ‘Aryan’, background checks supposedly run. Hopefully appearance etc. not pertinent to case. PLEASE.’_

 _‘Prussia re: Nazis’_ was underlined a few times, and then Schumacher cautiously clicked on _‘Figure Seven’_.

This was yet more amateur video, this one titled _‘England, Drunken Rampage- The Lionshead Pub 16.3.2019_. _Video posted to Internet 17.3.2019; taken down that afternoon by host server on orders of undisclosed person(s)’_. 

It was quite a spectacular drunken rampage, to be sure, with helpful little edited-in captions pointing out various salient points of grievously-injured pubgoers, stunning property damage, and the sudden fire that erupted behind the bar itself for no apparent reason. A running transcription of what England was saying, as best as could be deciphered, was mentioning banshees and unicorns in inordinate amounts. The parting words from the movie editor were- _‘He’s completely delusional and sodding insane. Why does the government let him out?’_

He frowned a bit at that- the man was clearly outrageously drunk; and though he might have set fire to the alcohol, that was a _little_ uncharitable. _‘A.K.- drinking/anger management problem?’_ went into the notes.

 _‘Figure Eight’_ was another picture, this one clearly taken surreptitiously from across an outdoor café. There were two men in it, one of them leaning across the table to kiss the other. A bit of text inserted in the bottom corner read _‘Spain+Italy#2, Barcelona, 24/6/1998’_.

Schumacher closed that one almost immediately, feeling slightly disgusted. It was one thing to hunt through internet archives and published books and maybe even yard sales, but _this_ was paparazzi photography at _best-_

_-Hanna said there’s never been press access-_

-and deliberate stalking at worst.

He skipped down past the other attachments listed as Figure-number-something and to the last thing his sister had sent him; titled _‘A Short Treatise on the Nature of Genii Locorum’_.

* * *

_“SOFIE!”_

Ludwig sighed and followed his brother’s voice to a small group of tables clustered away from the main reception, near a small copse of trees.

“Gilbert, please let go of the Minister of the Interior.”

His brother opened one eye and half-glared at him over the woman’s shoulder.

 _“_ No.”

The German Federal Minister of the Interior sighed and patted Prussia’s back.

“Hello, _Königsreich_.”

Gilbert hugged her a bit tighter and smiled.

“ _Prinzessen_.”

Germany took a deep breath and crossed his arms.

Italy reached up and tugged on his sleeve.

“Ludwig, don’t make that face!” he pouted. “She’s Gilbert’s!”

“Yep,” Prussia said smugly. “ _And_ your Empress.”

“No she’s not, Gilbert,” Germany snapped. “She’s my Minister of the Interior.”

“Psh- she’s _my_ Princess which makes her _your_ Empress.”

“Gilbert, she is _not_ my Empress. Her great-great-grandfather was my _last_ Emperor. If _you_ want-”

“She’s _important!_ ” Prussia told him, pointing accusingly. “She’s on your Cabinet!”

“I’m not _denying_ that she’s important; I’m reminding you that I’m not an empire anymore! If you want to claim her as your Princess, that is absolutely acceptable. What is _not_ acceptable is your continuous efforts to style her as my sovereign when I haven’t had one since 1918.”

“Republican,” Prussia scoffed.

_“Monarchist.”_

“Shut up Lutz.”

“Well, _I_ don’t approve.”

Gilbert turned his head and glared at Austria.

“You too. _You’re_ just jealous.”

Roderich looked down his nose at him.

“I am _not_ jealous. _You_ are being ridiculous.”

“Yes you _are_ ; you’re jealous because the Hohenzollerns are _way_ better than the Habsburgs.”

Austria set his teacup down harder than he had to.

“No they are _not._ ”

“They made better Emperors, too.”

“Why, _yes,_ because that is _absolutely_ the reason Bismarck never had to contend with Wilhelm.”

 _“That was uncalled for!”_ Prussia said angrily. “ _Whose_ royal house was it that produced someone so _stupid_ that he went visiting hostile territory in an open car, huh?”

 _“Gilbert,”_ the Minister of the Interior scolded.

Prussia looked back at his Princess.

“How come you had to marry _him?_ ” he complained.

“I _like_ Luther, Prussia,” she said patiently.

Austria huffed and said something under his breath about pollution of bloodlines. Prussia rounded on him, and Federal Minister Sofie Sieghild Friederike Käthe Prinzessen von Preußen und von Habsburg-Hohenzollern gratefully distanced herself from the impending argument and took a seat next to the Nation she served.

Germany opened his mouth to apologize, but Sofie waved him off.

“Ludwig, I’ve been dealing with your brother since I could speak. You don’t need to apologize to me for him.”

“He is still acting completely inappropriately.”

“I’m used to it. Hello, Your Majesty, Your Serenities.”

“Excuse me, young lady?” a large, elderly man asked, a little loudly. “What was that?”

“She said h’llo _,_ Tomas _,”_ Sweden repeated for the benefit of his king.

“What? Oh- hello.”

Sofie smiled at him.

“Mr. Oxenstierna, didn’t I see you with your son earlier?”

“Poland stole ‘im.”

“Oh?”

Italy made a sort of half-groan and flopped forward onto the table, waving at Sofie a little as he did so.

“Ludwig _,_ why do Gilbert and Roderich have to fight about nobility neither of them _have_ anymore? I mean, me and Lovino don’t complain about _Amedea. We_ don’t mind that she married Laurent.”

“Feliciano,” the Princess of Monaco said gently. “I don’t think you and Monaco ever fought.”

“Well we fought France.”

“I am _not_ France,” Monaco said from further around the table.

“I know you’re not France, Claudia, you’re much prettier than him!” Italy told her. “And much better at gambling, I can’t get him to play cards with me anymore.”

Germany sighed.

“I believe it’s just an excuse to continue their pointless antagonism.”

“But-”

“Wales is here.”

“Hm?” Feliciano asked Berwald, confused as to what he’d just said.

 _“Wales,”_ Monaco translated. “With _England’s_ king.”

Feliciano turned completely around in his seat.

“But don’t they have the same king?” he asked, before waving enthusiastically at the other Nation and calling “ _WALES! Wales Wales hey Wales_ come sit with us! _Tristan!_ We have seats free come on!”

Wales spent a few minutes staring at him- as did a few other people- but eventually came over with his king and sat down.

There was a round of greetings before Germany asked the question that everyone was wondering about.

“Is England sick?”

“No,” Wales said. “He went to see the Neighbors.”

“The neighbors?” Germany asked, puzzled. “But this is-”

“Not your brothers, right?” Monaco asked.

Wales shook his head.

“But-” Germany began.

Italy tilted his head.

“Nicnevin?”

Wales nodded, and the other Nations at the table shifted a little. Italy bit his tongue to keep from asking why England had gone.

“Who are we talking about?” Ludwig demanded. “Where’s England?”

Sweden tried to strike up a conversation with Wales, and Monaco suddenly became immensely interested in what they had to say to each other.

_“Feliciano.”_

Italy, realizing that no one else at the table was going to come to his rescue, turned to his husband with his best smile.

“The Grays, Ludwig! He went to see to see the Grays!”

Germany stared at him.

“Why do you know about his human neighbors?”

Music started up on the other side of the courtyard.

“Oooh! Amedea, dance with me!” Feliciano exclaimed, bouncing in his seat slightly. “Ludwig doesn’t like dancing in public so he won’t do it with me but you will right?”

She glanced at her husband, who was attempting to hold a conversation with the King of Sweden, and decided not to bother him.

“Of course, Feliciano.”

“Ah!” Italy said happily, and stood. He turned and bowed to her. “ _Signora_ di Savoia- will you dance with me?”

Amedea smiled at him and took his hand delicately. Feliciano smiled back and kissed it; and Ludwig fought down a feeling of insecurity as they walked off arm-in-arm.

* * *

Cristoforo was wandering the Vatican gardens, listening to the distant noise of the crowd packing St. Peter’s Square. A feeling was building in his gut, a sort of heavy certainty.

He found a bench facing the back of the Basilica and sat down, staring at the sky. He fingered his rosary, and contemplated the calm. The late fall air was cool, and only the bushes were still in leaf. In the early morning, when he came out for his walks, the grass lining the gravel pathways were dusted with frost. 

The murmuring of the crowd grew louder, into a distant roar, and Cristoforo blinked, refocusing on the sky.

White smoke was drifting over the city.

The Holy See stood, brushed his vestments off, straightened them, and went to meet the new Vicar of Christ.

* * *

Teodozja held Roksana a little tighter and looked up at the man Poland had left her with, without even an introduction.

“I’m Armas,” he said after a few moments.

“I’m… Teodozja.”

She looked down at her daughter.

“And this is Roksana.”

Armas just looked at her for a few moments, with some expression he couldn’t name on his face, and Dosia considered starting to back away. This man was quite large and intimidating- and the way he didn’t appear to want to talk much wasn’t helping.

“Are you Poland’s granddaughter?”

“What? No!” Dosia said quickly. “I live at his house and he has a grandson!”

Armas looked at her in that inscrutable way of his again, but this time it seemed tinged with curiosity.

“You know him?”

Her grip on Roksana tightened again, and Armas noticed.

“You were together,” he said.

Dosia focused on Roksana. She’d managed to avoid admitting to anyone so far that she was a teenage mother, but she’d felt people staring at her during the ceremony, and now Poland had left her with this man, and-

“Good to meet you, cousin.”

Teodozja looked back at Armas to find him smiling at her.

_‘Cousin’?_

Surely she’d heard that wrong.

“ _‘Vetter’_?” she asked, to make sure she’d heard the German word properly.

“Well, family history gets complicated,” Armas replied. “If you _really_ want to know ask Cassiel- I saw him here earlier, where- aha!”

He pointed across the courtyard to a light-haired man talking excitedly to someone else.

“That’s him. He’s Prussia and Israel’s son. Øystein and Ásdís are here too, I saw them too, maybe they came with Else-”

“Um-” Dosia started to say.

Armas looked back at her.

“Right- new. Ásdís is Iceland’s daughter and Øystein is Norway’s son. Else-”

Something behind her caught his attention.

 _“Katsu?”_ he asked, surprised.

An Asian man in a nice suit sidled into Dosia’s range of vision.

“Hey Armas,” he said.

“Did you come with your father or something? Is Japan here?”

Katsu shook his head.

“I was just… around. So I decided to ask if I could come and they were happy to invite me.”

Armas stuck his hands in his pockets.

“You’re avoiding Mr. Honda again, aren’t you?”

“I don’t think he wants to see me.”

“You can’t stay out of the country _forever._ ”

“Well, someday I _won’t_ be able to stay away from him, so I may as well let everything cool down now,” Katsu said, looking slightly despairing. “He’s only ever going to think of me as the man who divorced his daughter, even _after_ I take the throne.”

“You don’t know that for certain,” Armas argued.

“Armas, are you going to introduce us?” Katsu asked suddenly.

The man blinked and looked at Dosia, who had become completely lost in the conversation.

“Uh- right. Katsu, this is…”

“Teodozja Pakulski,” Dosia supplied.

“-Poland’s… renter. And her daughter…”

“Roksana.”

“Teodozja, this is His Imperial Highness Katsu, the Crown Prince of Japan.”

It took Dosia a few moments to restart her brain.

“U-u-u- Hello, Your Highness!” she burst out, and then blushed and ducked her head.

She was making _such_ a fool of herself.

Katsu did his best not to smile, but didn’t quite make it.

“Thank you,” he said, slightly amused. “Welcome to the Family.”

* * *

 

Giuditta bounced Apollonia slightly on her hip and walked over to her husband, who was still crouched on the floor next to his father. She reached down with her free hand and stroked his hair.

“Niki, he’ll get better,” she told him. “ _Padre_ and the others wouldn’t let a Nation die.”

She moved her hand to reach for Greece.

“See, he doesn’t look as sick as he did when he fir-”

Her fingers sunk through his skin.

Giuditta and Nikephoros stared in shock and horror as Greece began to go transparent, his edges fading and blurring into the couch.

Nikephoros opened his mouth, but his throat didn’t seem to be working.

 _“ZIA SPASIA!”_ Giuditta shrieked.

Sicily jerked awake in her chair as Crete dropped her book and rushed over, leaning over the back of the couch to see what the problem was. She blanched at what she saw.

The young Nations crowded around, curious. Thrace reached for Greece.

 _“Don’t touch him!”_ Sicily snarled, and smacked his hand away.

She pushed everyone away from the couch, taking a few steps backwards with her arms out to keep her niece and nephew-in-law from dashing forward again.

“ _Zia Spasia_ ,” Giuditta said, fear in her voice.

Sicily didn’t speak, only stared at Greece with wide eyes, breath coming fast and heavy. Crete was gripping Thrace and Greek Macedonia tightly to keep them from darting forward, the Cyclades clinging to her skirt.

Greece suddenly went very transparent, his features existing as mere traceries in the air, patterned against the backdrop the couch upholstery. Sicily sucked in a sharp, short breath, and tensed all over.

Slowly, very slowly, the Nation’s color and mass began to fade back in, the couch cushions under him becoming depressed once more under his weight.

It was so quiet in the room that they could hear his shallow breathing.

Sicily lowered her arms hesitantly and took a few careful steps towards the couch. She reached for Greece, her hand trembling as if she was reaching for a live grenade. It hovered in the air a few centimeters above his face, and then Sicily forced herself to touch his skin.

Her hand met resistance- she pressed against his cheek, and nothing happened.

Letting out a shaky breath, she let herself drop to her knees beside the couch and leaned over Greece, wrapping him in her arms- reassuring herself that he was still there.

Crete came over and stood on the other side of the arm rest, taking Greece’s head in her hands and staring silently at him.

The Cyclades followed her, edging into the space between the two grown Nations. She snuck her hand along the couch seat, grasping for Greece’s sleeve.

 _“You’re all killing him!”_ Sicily exploded suddenly, lunging forward. The Cyclades scrambled backwards and Crete pulled the child against her legs.

 _“Vespasiana,”_ she said warningly.

Nikephoros wedged himself into the newly freed space between Sicily and the couch to take his father’s hand again, and lay his head against his chest, listening to the Nation’s heartbeat.

Giuditta watched as Vespasiana turned her back to the couch and pulled her knees up, placing a forearm there and then resting her forehead on top of it.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I’m sorry; it’s not your fault.”

* * *

**_A Short Treatise on the Nature of Genii Locorum_ **

**_by Jiuwehiu_ **

_The mysterious nature and origins of Genii Locorum (Nations, Âmes du Peuple,_ _国民_ _上_ _(Kokumin-ue), Seelenvolk, etc.) have always been obscure. Every group of people even vaguely resembling a civilization have had their own theories, from the ‘Gods on Earth’ of the ancients to the angels vs. demons controversy of the Judeo-Christians to the New Age psychic amalgamations. However, little documentation or discussion on these strange ‘people’ exists outside of a very small circle of enthusiasts and sometimes a few mentions by an intellectual or theologian._

_It’s unclear when the phenomenon of Genii Locorum began, since archaeology seems uninterested in this topic for some reason. There are mentions of things like ‘the spirit of Sparta’ and ‘the spirit of Athens’ in a Greek poem and ‘the God-Spirit of our King’ on a fragment of an Egyptian stele and similar mentions in old Mesopotamian prayers, but no one knows if these were meant to be literal or metaphorical. The first confirmed instance of a Genii Locorum was the one for Rome, called by the Romans ‘Genius Romae’ and treated like a sort of minor god or a demigod._

_The rise of Christianity discouraged that sort of thinking as “pagan” and started in motion its own theories and controversies. Since there’s no mention of Genii Locorum in the Judaic texts or the Bible -except for maybe Zephaniah 3:14 &15- “Sing, O daughter of Zion; shout, O Israel; be glad and rejoice with all thy heart, O daughter of Jerusalem. The LORD hath taken away thy judgments, he hath cast out thine enemy: the king of Israel, even the LORD, is in the midst of thee: thou shalt not see evil any more” and it only works if we assume that the Genius Loci we call ‘Israel’, who happens to be female, was also around back then- it took the Church awhile to get around to anything regarding the phenomenon. But eventually somebody brought it up, and then the trouble started._

_An unattributed manuscript from sometime in the second or third century describes Genii Locorum as fallen angels who weren’t quite bad enough to be thrown into Hell with the Devil and were instead placed on Earth to act as intercessors “between God and Man”. Of course, then someone else took the other side and said they were demons who were sent to distract mankind from God, instigate wars, and other things like that. The Church never officially took a stance here, opting to say that they were clearly not human but still made in God’s image; but the demon theory was never very popular anyways and the angel theory hung around in some areas for a while. The angel theory plus the old “pagan” ideas about them were a huge influence on the possession of a Genius Loci by a monarch to be part of a King’s “divine right” to rule._

_During the Enlightenment, some intellectuals started saying that maybe they were related to humans in some way, maybe a different branch of the evolutionary tree, but no one ever proved this and it seems unlikely. There were also theories saying that maybe they were related to fairies, but since there are no fairies this is silly. As usual, the question was mostly ignored, even more strangely than usual this time since this is the point where nationalism started becoming a big problem. The only attention paid to the phenomenon during this time period was for propaganda purposes and possibly as the occasional target of a revolutionary sect._

_No one seriously brought up the question again until the New Age movement started, when people started looking into the Hindu/Buddhist ideas about Genii Locorum being either the highest state of being before Nirvana (since living such a long/immortal life meant lots of opportunity to obtain wisdom) or the/one of the lowest (living a long/for all time= less-to-zero chance of obtaining a new life) and  the fringe theories about a possible relationship between Genii Locorum and Jung’s “Collective Unconscious”. This ended up in the theory that Genii Locorum are a phenomenon of the manifestation of a country’s combined psychic potential, self-image, or just the collective “cultural unconscious”._

_However, with the discovery of alien activity on Earth, all of these theories fall into even more doubt than they already have. The few ideas about Genii Locorum being the products of secret super-soldier programs were obviously wrong- no one before the Industrial Revolution would have been able to have such programs, and yet the phenomenon cropped up there- and this was quickly caught on to. It is much more probable that the alien activity on Earth in the infancy of either life in general or the human race in specific-_

Keld Schumacher stopped reading there and buried his head in his hands.

He couldn’t believe he was reading this. He couldn’t believe he had actually called his sister. He couldn’t believe he had signed that contract- at this point, he was pretty certain he’d just made his life _way_ more complicated, stressful, and potentially fatally-dangerous than it had ever needed to be.

 _No,_ he told himself sternly. _Take a deep breath. Relax. Positive thinking! You are the first person who will get the opportunity to do any sort of psychological study on these people. The first person to do_ any _sort of scientific study. That is a good, exciting thing and you need to remember that!_

  _I cannot believe I’m reading a ‘scholarly’ paper written by someone anonymously on the Internet and posted to a conspiracy theory forum. There are_ aliens _in it._

Actually, most of the paper looked like it was about aliens.

Schumacher closed it and considered looking at the other attachments his sister, and decided against it. He didn’t delete the e-mail, though, just in case.

It was time to dive into the supplementary information Rémy Beilschmidt had given him. Thankfully, he flipped to the next page on his note pad- _now_ he would get some reliable, trustworthy, _not insane_ information.

* * *

England could feel Irene’s damp hand clutching his tightly even after they left Pwffio’s cavern. Silently, Arthur cursed the man and all the pain he’d caused. Was it _really_ that hard to keep ahold of all the wonder he had felt for the world- for Honalee, and for Earth? The last dragon in the world, and a little boy who couldn’t keep himself from discarding everything he’d had as he grew older had broken him so thoroughly that he hadn’t been seen in the light of day for centuries.

The tunnel sloped upward, at a much more noticeable angle than the entrance to the cavern had. Irene’s breath behind him was fast and heavy as she tried to deal with the darkness and the angle while occasionally stumbling over small rocks and uneven spots in the floor.

It just reminded Arthur unpleasantly of another dark, rough-hewn tunnel, in a place he never wanted to see or hear or think about ever again.

After too long, the darkness began to ease again, and the chill from outside began to filter down and war with the heat from Pwffio’s cavern. Soon afterwards, they emerged onto the top of cliffs, in a wide field carpeted with purple aster flowers.  A herd of grazing sheep was spread out all over the expansive grassy area, dotting the green and purple with dirty white.

“Thank you, Jackie,” he told their guide, and held out the sandwich.

The man grumbled unintelligibly and grabbed the sandwich, tearing off the thread and paper to start devouring the food within.

England felt a little sorry for Jackie then- it wasn’t _his_ fault, exactly, that he’d been cursed to never leave the area beyond Pwffio’s cavern.

“Come on, Irene,” she said quietly, gesturing his daughter away from the edge of the cliff and the entrance to the dragon’s cave. Jackie should be able to eat alone.

They ventured out into the field, and Arthur adjusted his bag. Thankfully, he’d soon be able to get rid of the heaviest of his items.

“Black sheep, black sheep,” he muttered to himself, searching the field. “Where did you go-ahah!”

He trotted off across the field, gesturing at Irene to stay put.

England knelt down in front of the one black sheep in the herd and placed the bag gently in the flowers.

“May I have your wool?” he asked quietly.

The sheep ogled him for a moment, and then _baa_ ed at him plaintively.

“Yes, love, of course I do.”

He reached into the bag and took out of his jars of clover.

“One from the Master-”

The next jar.

“One from the dame-”

The last jar.

“And one from the woman who cries down the way.”

The black sheep nosed the jars and _baa_ ed again when one fell over.

“Of _course_ I bloody well will,” England replied. “You’re a _sheep,_ I didn’t sodding _expect_ you to be able to open them.”

He unscrewed the lids of the jars and poured the clover out onto the nearby rock. The sheep lipped at the clover, and England stroked it’s matted, slightly-smelly wool.

“Nice to have some variety in your diet sometimes, isn’t it love?”

The sheep tossed its head and shoved him away.

Arthur tumbled face-first into the flowers, banging his nose into the dirt.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, and shifted his head.

There, in front of his eyes, was a large clump of black wool tangled in some dried flower stems.

“Thank you, love,” England said, and starting stuffing the wool into the jars.

* * *

Ivan knocked the door to his sister’s house.

Ukraine opened the old, battered wooden door and ushered him in. Russia didn’t need directions, and went straight for the bare wood stairs up to the second floor of the converted hunting lodge. The boards in the floor were faded and scuffed, and the wall panels faded and scratched. Everything was badly in need of a good sanding and new varnish- possibly replacement.

But Ivan paid this little attention- once, he would have. But now he had bigger problems to focus on.

The door at the end of the hall looked like it was the only thing that anyone had been taken care of, though Russia knew Yekateryna was seeing to the upkeep of the house as best she could. It was heavy, dark wood, carved with panels from the stories of the Bogatyrs, the brass handle carefully polished and the wood buffed.

Ivan gripped the handle, paused for a moment to compose himself, and then entered.

Belarus was sitting up in her bed, staring into the flames of the fireplace opposite the carefully-carved piece of furniture. She had one of his knit shawls around her shoulders, over the dark navy nightdress she wore.

She wouldn’t wear white. Not yet.

Ivan took his coat off and hung it over the back of the chair for the desk wedged into the area between the door and the wall, steadfastly ignoring the simple pine box at the foot of his sister’s bed, the Cross of Saint Euphrosyne inlaid on its top in different woods. He picked his knitting basket up off the desk, took his boots off, and sat down on the bed next to Natalya.

“ _Sestra_ ,” he said quietly.

Belarus turned her head toward him and blinked slowly a few times, the firelight playing across her face and making her bones stand out more. He pushed a few locks of hair, unrestrained by hair ribbons now, out of her eyes.

“Brother,” she mumbled, and Ivan pulled her against him, and then leaned against the headboard. He stuck the knitting basket between them and pulled out his needles, examining the state of one of his current projects.

Unbidden, Belarus picked up the hank of white yarn he was using and looped it around her hands, holding it as she always did. It was a good compromise between them- she got to stay close to him, but at the same time had her hands occupied.

 _Had_ been a good compromise.

 _White_ , Ivan thought disgustedly, staring at the mittens he was making. _White, white, always white. I am so_ sick _of white._

He liked his sister’s quilt much better, the navy and orange and yellow and green patches spread out over her legs, thick and fluffy with goose down.

The needles _click_ ed against each other as he began the finishing touches on the mittens.

“Pajari wants to let Chechnya and the Caucus go as soon as possible,” he told his sister quietly, unwilling to disturb the atmosphere. “Without a fight, he says.”

Natalya huddled closer.

“Good,” she said.

“I do not see how losing land is good,” Russia remarked, tying off the end of the yarn in the last mitten.

“Because then I am a bigger part of Brother,” she told him, unresisting as Ivan took her hands out of the yarn skein and gently tugged the mittens on.

They fit perfectly.

“Are you going to line them with rabbit fur?” Belarus asked suddenly. “Sister finished my boots yesterday, with fur from the rabbits she caught. We had a soup of them for dinner.”

“That is nice,” Ivan murmured.

“Sister is making my belt out of the same elk of the boots. It is almost done and she said that she will make me a knife sheath to match.”

Ivan pulled the mittens off Natalya’s hands and placed them on the bedside table. _Yekateryna_ could put them in that infernal box.

The door opened again, and Ukraine walked in with a bed tray, a bowl of soup and a mug of warmed wine on top.

“I brought an early dinner, _sestra_ ,” she said. “Since Vanya is here.”

Belarus looked at the tray, and then at Russia’s other unfinished project in the knitting basket.

“But I must hold Brother’s yarn,” she said.

Yekateryna set the tray down firmly in front of her little sister.

“I’m sure Vanya can wait until you’re done eating,” she said, dipping the spoon into the soup and lifting it to Natalya’s face.

She turned her head away to look at Ivan.

“Brother,” she said.

He took the spoon and Belarus opened her mouth to take it.

Ukraine watched them for a moment, to make sure Belarus really was eating, and then bent down to drag her sewing bag out from under the bed. She, too, sat down on the quilt, at her younger siblings’ feet. As Ivan continued spoonfeeding Natalya, she pulled out a strip of white ribbon, heavily embroidered, with a small bead design in the middle portion, and held it up, tilting it back and forth in the firelight to examine her work.

Deeming it satisfactory enough, she set it on the bed and unwound a length of leather.

“Look, Brother, see?” Belarus asked, pointing at her sister. “The belt matches.”

Russia glanced at his older sister’s project. The white-dyed leather certainly did match the boots he’d seen halfway through production the last time he’d stopped by; they were now presumably in that _box._

Yekateryna smiled softly, a little sadly, at her.

“I rebound the grip on your hunting knife, too,” she said, taking out a cloth bundle and unwrapping the instrument- it was both sharper and brighter than Ivan remembered it being.

Natalya stared at it, eyes slightly wide, and smiled back before accepting another spoonful of soup.

Ukraine re-wrapped the knife and placed it back in her bag before taking up the belt once more; pulling the needle out of where she’d anchored it before to continue her embroidered pattern.

White-on-white; as always. Everything white, like the snow outside and the stars that would appear once the sky darkened, and the full moon in a few days.

Carefully, she picked out stiches in the thick material.

Belarus finished her soup, and Ivan placed the spoon in the bowl before picking up the mug and pressing it into his sister’s hands.

“Drink,” he told her, and placed the tray on the floor.

Natalya sipped at the still-warm wine, but her eyebrows furrowed in irritation as her brother picked up his knitting needles again.

“I can do a little work by myself, _Sestra_ ,” he told her. “Drink. Keep your strength up.”

“But I want to be one with Brother,” she said, sounding annoyed. “If I try to stay strong it will take longer.”

Yekateryna looked up from her stitching, and this time her smile was bitter.

“But _Sestra_ ,” she said, faking cheerfulness. “If you’re strong when you join him, then won’t _Vanya_ get stronger?”

Belarus considered this for a moment, staring into the fire again.

“Of course,” she said. “Brother should be strong. Brother should always be as strong as he can be.”

Ivan stared hard at the scarf he was still knitting, letting his hair fall across his face as much as it could.

 _White and white and more white. Why can’t it be gold; or green?_ Always _white. Always death._

“I am sorry,” he said after a moment, trying to sound as happy as he could. The regretfulness, the sadness- that didn’t need any effort. That was real. “I have meetings to attend and a Prime Minister to plot against, _da_?”

Quickly, he repacked his knitting and got off the bed, replacing the basket on the desk and slipping his feet into his boots.

“You will come back tomorrow, Brother?” Natalya asked hopefully, voice barely able to carry across the room.

Russia stuck his arms through his coat sleeves and re-wrapped his scarf before turning.

“Not tomorrow, Natasha,” he said. “The day after, _da_?”

He opened the door and left the room, just barely catching the sound of Ukraine murmuring something.

Ivan was halfway down the stairs when there were hurried footsteps in the hall above him, which quickly turned into rapid strikes against the steps.

Yekateryna caught up to her brother and pulled him down to sit, halfway down the staircase, and sob into her shoulder.

* * *

Teodozja had followed Armas and Prince Katsu off to a table someone had vacated, if the unfolded napkins and lack of silverware were any indication.

Roksana had started to fuss, so she’d reached into the accessories bag she’d brought along and pulled out a bottle. Her daughter took it happily and sucked while the men continued their conversation/quasi-argument about whether or not the Prince was running away from his ex-father-in-law and Nation.

“A baby!” a woman exclaimed happily, and Dosia looked up to find a blonde woman with pale blue eyes smiling at her daughter.

“She’s Roksana,” she told the woman.

 “Else!” Armas exclaimed. “I _knew_ I saw you! You didn’t come to say hello to _Far_ and I!”

“Hey, Armas,” she replied, smiling lopsidedly. “Happy now?”

He snorted and rolled his eyes.

“Do you know Katsu?”

“Not personally,” Else said. “Good afternoon, Katsu.”

“Good to see you again, too.”

“You know Halya, though, right?” Else asked Armas, pulling the other woman forward.

“...Yeah?” he replied, a little confused. “Is she with you?”

“Ah-” Else said, stalling for an answer.

“Because _I_ thought that Øystein and Ásdís came with you.”

“Oh- wait, _Øystein_ and _Ásdís_ are here?”

“You didn’t know?”

“No!”

“Hm.” Now Armas looked puzzled. “Well, maybe they came with Cassiel then?”

“ _Cassiel Beilschmidt_ is here?” Halya asked. “How did he manage _that?_ ”

“I guess he came with Prussia?” Armas suggested weakly, and then glanced over at Dosia, who watching everyone curiously.

“Oh- Else, Halya, this is Teodozja Pakulski and her daughter Roksana- Poland’s renter and her daughter.”

“Hello, Teodozja,” Halya greeted her.

“Hello, Ms. Halya,” Dosia replied, feeling slightly uncomfortable about addressing the woman by her first name. She wasn’t sure if it was proper or not- but if Armas and Prince Katsu knew her, did that make her ‘Family’- another ‘cousin’?

“Have you seen Turkey?” Else asked Armas and the Prince, taking Halya’s hand. “We were supposed to meet him-”

Prince Katsu glanced down at their joined hands and then up at their faces suspiciously.

“Wait; you two-”

“ _Oi Jumala_ ,” Armas mumbled, pressing his face into his palm. “Halya, when you moved, you moved to _Oslo,_ didn’t you?”

“Yes I did,” she said, and squeezed Halya’s hand.

“Hal!” a man called.

“ _Babam_!” Halya exclaimed happily, and turned around to hug her father. Turkey nearly lifted her off the ground before letting go.

“You moved too far away!” he complained. “I never get to see you anymore!”

“I’ve been calling!” Halya protested, and gave him a kiss.

Then she pulled away and glanced over at Else.

“ _Babam_ ,” she said. “This is Else Synnøve.”

A deep breath.

“We’re engaged.”

* * *

Keld Schumacher decided he was a _complete_ fool. With a heretofore unknown tendency towards self-destruction.

The supplementary information from the envelope was spread out all over his desk, the coffee table he’d dragged over from his sitting-and-talking area, and the floor immediately surrounding both.

He was probably now the world expert on the abnormal psychology (and just plain psychology) of Nations, simply from just reading all this, but it didn’t give him much comfort.

His notes were now seven pages long, cross-referenced with arrows and asterisks and little reminders about previous bits of information.

Yes, he was a fool. What had he _done_ to himself?

And he still had the mysterious black folder he’d only barely managed to extract from the envelope to look at.

* * *

Ásdís meandered away from the main body of wedding guests. Yes, Cassiel wanted her to schmooze, but just because he’d said that didn’t mean she _had_ to.

Besides- _wedding._

She was not at all opposed to the idea of simply _talking_ to people, though, but everyone was already wrapped up with old or new acquaintances, and there was no room in any conversation for one more member.

_“Hello!”_

A young woman, earlier twenties at most, bounced out of nowhere, all smiles and sunshine, and grabbed Ásdís’s hands.

She jerked back slightly in surprise.

“My name is Serafina DiAngeli and it is _very_ nice to meet you!” the woman gushed, completely undaunted by, and possibly not noticing, Ásdís’s reaction.

“Uh- hello,” Ásdís replied, quickly trying to accommodate herself to this strange woman.

“You did not look happy so I came over here to talk! Please tell me what’s wrong!”

Apparently, the universe agreed with the schmoozing.

 _Only ridiculously rich people can afford to be this weird,_ Ásdís decided, and told the whole story about Cassiel’s intended mission at the wedding.

Serafina blinked at her a few times, and Ásdís was starting to think that maybe she had been put off by the intent to schmooze, but then the brilliant smile came back.

“Oh! Well that is easy to fix! I have money and you did not need to try and trick me out of it and I would quite like to meet this Cassiel! Take me to him!”

 _Well,_ Ásdís reflected, _at least_ someone _besides Cassiel is enthusiastic about himself._

* * *

Germany was still sitting at the table with the royalty of Sweden and Monaco, carefully watching Veneziano as he charmed every woman within twenty feet to dance with him, when someone tugged on his sleeve.

He looked down and saw Südtirol.

Ludwig managed a small smile and reached down for her.

“ _Hallo_ again, _kuschelbär._ Are you feeling lone-”

She stepped back as far as she could, still holding onto his sleeve. She tugged again.

Germany looked at her in confusion for a moment before his parenting memories kicked in.

“You want to show me something?”

Südtirol nodded furiously and tried to pull him out of his seat.

Ludwig stood and pried her hand off his sleeve, taking it in his own. Immediately, Viktoria tried to take off towards the small tree grove nearby.

He let the girl lead, keeping pace with her easily as she pulled him into the trees. After that, he had to pause occasionally to move branches aside. Every time this happened, Südtirol would try to drag him forward.

“Patience,” he scolded lightly, before the young Nation pulled him through another set of branches and let go of his hand suddenly, dropping to her knees and crawling under a bush.

“I can’t go under there, _suβling_ ,” he told her as she disappeared from sight.

A few seconds later, Südtirol came crawling back- with a friend.

Germany examined the new girl as she and Viktoria stood. The two looked very much alike- Südtirol’s hair was more on the dark brown side, while the new girl’s shaded more towards gold; and both looked to be the same age.

And both had Feliciano’s honey eyes.

“Südtirol…” Ludwig said.

She jerked the other girl forward.

“Trient!” she announced.

“Margarethe,” Trient said, quieter than her sister.

So Trentino-Alto Adige _was_ completely represented.

Ludwig knelt down and held his hand out. Margarethe took it shyly.

“ _Hallo,_ _Treint. Ich bin Deutschland._ ”

They shook carefully- and then Südtirol barreled into both of them, forcing her sister to be a part of one of her many cuddle-sessions.

Ludwig let himself sit down, a little harder than he would have liked, to properly hold both of the young Nations.

“What does Veneziano call you, _mausi_?” he asked Margarethe.

Südtirol immediately shoved her hands into his face, smashing his nose slightly.

“Vikt-”

 _“_ A secret! _”_ she exclaimed forcefully. _“_ Trient’s a _secret!”_

Germany moved the girl’s hands off his mouth.

“A secret.”

 _“_ From Italy!”

He frowned, uncertain as to what to do. If Trient didn’t want to meet Veneziano, then technically, Ludwig supposed, she didn’t have to.

But she was a Nation, and Veneziano was her… overlord? Superior? Father?

Germany thought that it couldn’t _possibly_ be a good thing that Trient was hiding like this, and that Südtirol was helping her. It felt like something that Was Not Done.

He should pick Margarethe up and carry her out to the reception and introduce her to North Italy.

“Margarethe is a secret- no Italy, promise?” Südtirol pleaded.

But he had been the first person Viktoria had come to. The first person she’d told. She was asking him to keep it a secret- she _trusted_ him. She was _relying_ on him.

She _depended_ on him.

And that, Germany realized, was a _very_ ( _very very_ ) nice feeling.

Trient seemed well-fed, and clothed. Someone somewhere was taking care of her.

“Yes,” Ludwig agreed. “A promise.”

* * *

 

Schumacher was collapsed in his stuffed chair in his apartment. His briefcase, stuffed full of his notes and handouts, was dumped unceremoniously inside the doorway.

The cursed black folder was lying innocently, unassumingly, on his coffee table.

Schumacher took another drink and hoped that the caffeine would steady his nerves.

No such luck.

He had never before wondered what happened in the United Nations. He had never wondered about Nations.

Now he was thinking he should have kept it that way.

 _How many other people had the good sense to turn R_ _émy Beilschmidt down?_

This coffee wasn’t strong enough, but he didn’t have the will to get up and make some with less water. His eyes were riveted to the black folder of reports from the October UN session, as if it would self-destruct if he looked away.

* * *

Cristoforo checked himself over one more time before entering the Sistine Chapel. He caught the Camerlengo’s eye- the man nodded at him, and inclined his head towards a door on the other side of the room.

He stopped briefly to kneel before the altar and cross himself, offering a quick prayer, before hurrying to the Sala della Lacrime to await his new Pope.

The red and white room was dimly-lit, as always, and the Vatican settled in the corner of the low red bench set against the wall, next to the door.

Presently, the Pope-Elect entered.

Cristoforo sat quietly, fiddling with his gloves as the man donned his new vestments.

There was a pregnant pause in the air.

“My son, you should not be in here,” the man said.

The Vatican stood and stepped away from the couch. He paused a few moments to gauge the Pope-Elect’s reaction to his vestments.

It was a tradition with him- it gave him an initial idea of how his Pope would handle problems.

The Pope-Elect looked him up and down, slowly, noting each and every oddity of his dress- the plain black cassock of a lay priest, but with the open-fronted shoulder cape of a bishop, trimmed in white as no clergy wore. White and gold episcopal gloves outside a High Mass, a sash in the Pope’s white. His pectoral cross was ordinary enough, hung off one of his cassock buttons; but he wore no skullcap.

“And so you are, _signore_?” he asked Cristoforo, folding his hands in front of him.

_We have an Italian Pope again._

“ _Status Civitas Vaticanae et Sancta Sedes_ ,” he told the man, giving him his full formal Latin title.

The Pope-Elect had an expression that could only be described as knowing- and slightly surprised.

“What name does God know you by, Your Holiness?” the Vatican asked.

“Luca Bellomi.”

The name sounded familiar- Cristoforo attempted to place the accent in hopes of remembering where in Italy this man had served.

“And by what name shall the Lord’s people know you by?”

“Honorius the Fifth.”

 _It has been a long time since my last Honorius_ , he thought, and gestured towards the door.

“They are waiting for you, Your Holiness.”

The two of them exited the Sala della Lacrime and proceeded towards the balcony overlooking St. Peter’s Square.

As they walked, Cristoforo had a sudden thought.

_He speaks like Lovino._

Honorius must have noticed his change in expression, because he gave him a curious look.

The Vatican sighed.

“You were the Archbishop of Naples, Your Holiness,” he said resignedly. “The President of the Patriarchal Commission, should you choose not to replace him, is the Patriarch of Venice. My family is going to be _completely_ insufferable for the next few years.”

“I would imagine so.”

Cristoforo blinked.

“Ah-”

“I came to the Church later than most,” Honorius told him gently, a slight smile on his face. “Once, when I was very young, before Seminary, I worked on the staff of the Italian Permanent Representative to the United Nations.”

“You know my brothers already,” he said, with a little trepidation.

“Yes.”

“And you met-”

“Yes.”

“You dealt with France.”

“He was very memorable.”

“Poland-”

“An extremely interesting man.”

“Did Germany-”

“I have admired his ability to quickly bring order from chaos for many years.”

“And Prussia-”

“A fine example of perseverance.”

“You heard-”

“It was difficult not to.”

“And saw-”

“Your compatriots have in general a great openness towards expressing their opinions and preferences.”

_This man is very much the diplomat._

“Oh dear,” Cristoforo said faintly.

“After I was ordained,” Honorius continued, after a few moments of quiet. “Benedict the Seventeenth, in light of my service for Italy, requested that I replace His Excellency Karlsson at the United Nations while he fought off his illness.”

Cristoforo thought back to Titular Bishop as they drew closer to the balcony over St. Peter’s.

“You were there when we became human,” he realized.

“Yes.”

“Did you… see?”

“Yes,” the Pope told him solemnly. “It has given me much to think about over the years.”

With the both of them silent, the Vatican could hear the crowd roaring in the square. They reached the door to the balcony’s antechamber.

“I would like to speak to you of those things, later,” Honorius told him, hand resting on the antechamber’s door handle. “If you would consent.”

Cristoforo bowed his head.

“Of course, Your Holiness.”

They stepped inside, and then onto the balcony.

* * *

Turkey stared at his daughter’s betrothed for a moment.

 _“You,”_ he said after moment, pointing accusatorily at her. _“I know you.”_

Halya tried to look contrite.

“ _Babam_ -”

 _“Where is Norway,”_ he demanded, grabbing Else’s arm. Sadık whipped his head around, searching, and spotted the other man further down the courtyard, stoically enduring the occasional chaos of Nation-royalty relations.

Halya trotted off after her father as he dragged her fiancée away. Teodozja trailed after, intrigued.

 _“NORWAY!”_ Turkey said loudly, slamming his free hand down on the table in front of the Scandinavian. “Explain!”

The man looked impassively at him.

“Explain what.”

 _“This!”_ he demanded, pointing at Else.

Norway looked at her.

“Else, did you offend him?”

She opened her mouth to say something, but held the position for a few moments, thoughts flickering through her eyes.

“Maybe?” she said weakly.

“ _Babam_ _please_ ,” Halya pleaded with him.

Then Norway noticed the way Turkey was handling Else.

“Let go,” he ordered, eyebrows moving slightly towards each other.

“Why didn’t you _say_ something?” Sadık exclaimed. “We’re not _close_ or anything; but, _seriously_!”

Others were starting to look curiously at them now.

“What’s this now?” the King of Sweden asked loudly.

Else started looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Uh- Mr. Adnan, please-” she said, carefully trying to push his hand off.

“Hal, why didn’t you _tell_ me you were dating?” Turkey asked his daughter.

“ _Babam_ , there was politics and media to consider,” Halya told him. “Now _please_ let go of my fiancée before you cause an Incident!”

 _“Fiancée?”_ Norway asked, face uncharacteristically stunned. He turned to Else. “Your Highness-”

Her Royal Highness the Crown Princess Else Synnøve of Norway managed to use the distraction of her Nation’s surprisingly emotive face to pry Turkey’s hand off her arm.

“ _Far_ didn’t want the tabloids to pick it up,” she told him. “That’s why you never heard about it.”

“But-”

“My parents knew if they told you Denmark or someone would find out and start telling more people and then one of them would tell their President or Chancellor or someone and they didn’t want to trust my private life to a foreign politician.”

“ _I didn’t even know you were **gay.** ”_

“Well you know now,” Else told him, then grabbed Halya’s hand and pulled her into a kiss.

Turkey smacked his face over his eyes.

 _“God save me,”_ he muttered.

At a nearby table, Hungary burst out laughing.

Sadık whirled around.

 _“What?”_ he demanded.

“You-” she gasped, shoulders shaking. She pointed a finger at him. “ _You!_ _You’re_ going to be related to _Christian royalty!_ ”

“Oh dear- he _is,_ ” Austria remarked, just loud enough for most to hear him. He deliberately failed to completely hide his small smirk behind his handkerchief.

“Both of you shut up!” Turkey demanded. _“This isn’t funny!”_

“Oh my God, this is so _totally_ hilarious,” Poland snorted. He had been standing just close enough to pick up on what was going on.

“If y’ don’t stop,” Sweden interrupted. “I’m tellin’ the Vatican y’were mockin’ people about religion.”

Hungary pulled a face at him, but everyone shut up.

* * *

Tai shoved the window to his room open and clambered over the sill, moving from fire escape to indoors.

He closed the window again and flopped down on his bed, letting a huff of air.

Today had been interesting.

He heard the door open and quickly picked up the original book printing, in Chinese, of _Journey to the West_.

A few minutes later, his grandfather opened the door.

“How was your day?” he asked, sounding a little tired.

“Fine,” Tai replied, pretending to read.

“I’m sorry I had to go in today suddenly-”

“No, I get it. You’re on call. Just like _Mamma_.”

China made a noise like he was going to say something, but just mostly shut the door and walked away instead.

Tai dropped the book back on his bed and picked up his phone.

 _‘Same time tomorrow?’_ he asked.

 _‘Yes,’_ Eun texted back.

* * *

Ásdís led Serafina DiAngeli over to Cassiel. The woman’s enthusiasm was making her feel slightly run down.

“Cass,” she said, interrupting his attempts at engaging someone who looked as ill at ease as felt in conversation.

He turned around, smiling brightly.

“Yeah?”

“I am very interested to hear about these projects of yours!” Serafina burst out, grabbing both of his hands in greeting. “Tell me about them!”

 _“Really?”_ he exclaimed in joy.

 _“Really!”_ she told him, nearly bouncing in excitement.

“Those two were _made_ for each other, weren’t they?” Øystein muttered from behind her.

Ásdís turned around gratefully to talk to her cousin.

“They do seem to share ridiculous amounts of enthusiasm,” she agreed.

“Hey, did you see Else?”

“Else?”

“Synnøve.”

“Your _princess_ is here?”

Øystein nodded.

“So you _didn’t_ hear. I’m surprised- it was pretty loud. She’s engaged.”

Ásdís raised an eyebrow.

“They did it _here?_ ”

“She’s engaged to _Halya Adnan,_ ” he told her. “Turkey and _Far_ freaked out. They didn’t even know they _knew_ each other. _I_ didn’t know they knew each other.”

“ _Your father_ freaked out?” Ásdís asked in disbelief.

“He’s not an ice statue, you know,” his son reminded her. “He’s a person.”

“I know, I know.”

She looked over at the cluster of tables, where the uproar was slowly dying down.

“Still- _Wait._ He brought his _blueprints?_ ”

Øystein leaned out slightly to look around her at Cassiel, who had dragged Serafina over to a few abandoned chairs and was using the seats as a makeshift table. They were both sitting in the grass with absolutely no regard for their fancy clothes.

“Wow. He did. I guess it’s good to have examples; though I have no clue how he’s going to explain the- you know, power source stuff.”

Serafina pointed at something on the blueprint and traced a line across the paper with her finger.

One stunned exclamation later, Ásdís and Øystein found themselves dragged down into the grass next to Cassiel, completely against their will.

“Look at this!” he exclaimed excitedly. “Look at this look at this!”

He pulled out a white pencil and started scribbling things on the paper.

“Serafina-”

 _“Ms. DiAngeli,”_ Ásdís muttered, trying to remind him to look professional.

“Serafina’s fine!” the woman in question said happily.

“She looked at this and said that if we change _this_ to platinum and use phosphor bronze for _this_ and then upgrade _these_ bits with a little gold then we’ll increase efficiency and it won’t cost as much! She’s smart _and_ rich!”

“Cassiel _control yourself!_ ” Ásdís told him through clenched teeth.

“You are _awesome,_ ” he told Serafina, turning towards her.

“Thank you very much for your compliments!”

They instantly started talking about different metal alloys and possible reconfigurations and the merits of refurbishing parts of old electronics factories and the ways they could cut down on costs.

“From now on, _you’re_ handling the business transactions,” Øystein told his cousin. “This sort of thing could only work once.”

Ásdís looked at the two people she’d brought together, both apparently oblivious to the fact that they were arranged entirely too intimately for knowing each other less than five minutes.

_“Absolutely.”_

* * *

At 11:34 PM on November 17th, 2046; forty-nine years after the Sino-British Joint Declaration passed into effect and forty-four days before the start of the year that would end it; the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region of the People's Republic of China received a text message from the Sakha Republic.

It read:

_‘Fine, we’ll do it. When do we start?’_

Hong Kong read the text and smiled to himself.

At 11:37 PM on November 17th, 2046, the Macau Special Administrative Region of the People's Republic of China, the Republic of Korea, and the Republic of China received a text message from the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region of the People’s Republic of China.

It read:

_‘They’ll do it. Time to move.’_

* * *

Romano grabbed his brother and dragged him away from the dance area, emptying out now as the various royalty and dignitaries started to pull themselves together and leave to catch flights or some sleep before flights.

 _“Lovino,”_ Veneziano complained. “Come _on_!”

“We have to talk.”

Feliciano yanked his arm out of his brother’s grasp and adjusted his jacket.

“So what? We could have done that-”

Romano crossed his arms.

“What the hell is _with_ you and the autonomous regions? That’s not something to be so _happy_ about! Those were _your_ people and _your_ land they have now!”

“But they’re so _small!_ ” Feliciano said. “And cute! We can keep them around the house and take care of them and have a little family-”

“Stop trying to bullshit me, Veneziano! You fucking _slaughtered_ the _‘family’_ we used to have because they had your land!”

Feliciano opened his mouth, looking angry and hurt, but then snapped it shut and crossed his own arms and scrunched up, like he was trying to disappear into himself.

“I-”

“Alto Adige and Venezia Giulia and Friuli and Valle d’Aosta- all those are _your_ lands!” Romano snapped, jabbing a finger into his brother’s chest. “What the fuck is stopping you from slitting their throats in the middle of the night, jamming a rag in there to keep them from healing up, and burying the bodies!”

“They’re _children!_ ” he cried, uncrossing his arms and holding them out slightly from his sides.

“Yeah?” Lovino challenged. “Well, they’ll grow up someday if they don’t fade away from an ebb in nationalism! You going to kill them _then?_ Show up for dinner with a dish you made and watch as they eat the whole fucking thing and compliment you on how good it tastes and sit there with your wine while they seize up and use the kitchen knife to cut their hearts out and lock the things up somewhere?”

“No-” Feliciano started to say, eyes widening.

“So it’ll be like _before,_ then?” his brother continued, half-snarling. “There’ll be a message to show up in Rome and you’ll arrive with your rapier and a poisoned stiletto in your coat and it’ll be-”

“No,” Feliciano whispered; as Lovino started miming the actions.

“-one stab to the base of the neck and _turn_ sword to the stomach knife in the ear _duck_ _spin_ cut the hamstrings rapier up through the diaphragm under the ribs into the heart push the body off as you stand slice the next one’s eyes open shoulder Florence when he tries to grab you elbow to the jaw stiletto pommel in Lombardy’s throat blade in Lucca’s neck-”

_“SHUT UP!”_

The two brothers went down to the ground. Feliciano’s teeth were bared, and Lovino fended off his clawed fingers, the back of his jacket getting dusty and breaking threads against the mostly-frozen ground.

“They were _thieves!_ ” Veneziano snarled, trying to get at the other man’s eyes. “Those were _my_ cities Florence and Genoa and Mantua and Milan are _mine_ they’ve _always_ been mine they _stole_ them they stole them _all_ I was _born_ to be North Italy they kept me _small_ and _weak_ and helpless _useless_ they sank my ships and stole my people and my language my art and song and writing my land it’s _MINE_ it’s mine it’s always all of it _mine_ _mine mine mine mine_ -”

Romano blocked one of his brother’s hands with his forearm and slammed his free fist up under his jaw.

Feliciano’s head jerked up painfully, and Lovino used the distraction to flip them over, trapping the younger Nation beneath him.

He rested his forearm across Veneziano’s collarbones and leaned slightly, supporting most of his weight with his legs, currently entangled with his brother’s.

“This is what I’m talking about,” Romano told his brother quietly. “Someone takes something you think is yours and you lose your shit all over the fucking place, and don’t give anyone any damn warning.”

Feliciano had stopped struggling and was clutching his brother’s shoulders, taking deep, even breathes through his nose in an attempt to get as much oxygen to lungs through the pressure on his chest as he could.

“ _Mi dispiace_ , _Napoli_ ,” he whispered.

Romano ignored him.

“Just tell me what the hell is stopping you from doing that to the new ones.”

“I want a family.”

Lovino glared at him.

“You _have_ a fucking family! You’ve got me and Cristino and Sicilia and Sardinia and Seborga when they bother to _show up_ and your husband and your kids-”

“They’re human,” Feliciano said softly, eyes darkening. “Seventy years, eighty, they’ll be dead. I-I-I- don’t want to live without my children, Lovino, I love them and I don’t want them to get old and die and-”

“You think I don’t fucking _know?_ ” his brother demanded. “I’ve got children too! Damn it, I’m a _grandfather_ now! Seventy or eighty years from now I’ll probably be a _great-great_ grandfather!”

“S-So there’s Vittoria and Carlo and Zuliana and Lurinz-”

Lovino froze.

“You-”

Rage choked him for a minute.

“You motherfucking son-of-a-bitch!” he hissed. “You’re trying to replace your _own children!_ ”

 _“No!”_ Feliciano said quickly. “No no no no-”

“You damn well are, you bastard!” Romano accused, grabbing the front of his brother’s shirt and shaking him. Veneziano’s head smacked against the ground a few times. “What sort of a father _are_ you? Those are _your children,_ your own flesh and blood! You raised them and cared for them and _loved_ them-”

“I _love_ them I love them I love them!” Feliciano cried in a panic. “I do I do I _do_ please _please_ Lovino I’m _not_ a horrible father just _listen to me!_ ”

Lovino clenched his jaw shut and fixed him with a wrathful glare.

“It’s not like before!” Feliciano continued desperately. “We don’t have war after war after war in Europe and borders aren’t redrawn every twenty years and we’re a whole country now, we’re _important,_ we don’t have to fight and hate and spend our whole lives being paranoid about what our neighbors are doing you remember Lovino, you remember what that was like, growing up with too many Nations with not enough land in too small a space- they won’t have to _do_ that, not ours or Spain’s or Greece’s and maybe even Russia’s because the world’s changed, they won’t have to go to war and die and kill and torture and maim and _betray_ and all those other things; and when they die they won’t-”

He cut himself off, abruptly.

They both stayed there, silently, looking at each other.

After a few moments, Lovino stood up, fixed his clothes, and helped Feliciano stand.

There was no need for his brother to explain- they both knew what he’d been about to say.

* * *

England packed the wool jars into the top of the bag and walked back over to Irene. Jackie Paper had disappeared back down into the cavern, and she was looking a little lost.

“This way,” he said, jerking his head away from the cliff.

They walked in silence for a while, the aster flowers and grass going _sssh, sssh_ as they waded through the vegetation. Eventually the aster started to fade away, the grass grew shorter and scrubbier, and soon they were treading across short, coarse grass.

A train whistle sounded far off in the distance, disturbing the quiet.

“Fairyland has trains?” Irene asked.

“There’s no such place as ‘Fairyland’, Irene,” Arthur told her sternly. “I _told_ you, they don’t like that name. And this is _Honalee._ ”

“ _Honalee_ has trains, then?”

“One train,” England replied, and pointed off ahead of them. “Look.”

There was a tiny wooden shed, more like an overhang, on the back of a small, raised platform. Train tracks shone dully through the short grass, lain over gravel the same color as the stones on the beach.

A few moments walking brought them to the platform. England helped his daughter step up onto the wood structure, and they sat down on the single bench together.

Irene looked around.

“No ticket booth?”

“The Morningtown Express doesn’t take tickets. I have our payment right here.”

Arthur patted his bag.

Irene rubbed her eyes. It had been late when they’d left Arthur’s house, and they had to have been here a few hours at _least._

Presently, the train whistle sounded again, closer this time.

“So if there’s no Fairyland, what do I call it?” she asked, trying to suppress a yawn.

“We’re going to a place called the Hills.”

Irene leaned back against the bench.

“It sounds like Scotland.”

“It looks very much like Scotland.”

This time Irene couldn’t hide the yawn.

“So you’ve been there before?”

“A few times,” Arthur said, and then the _ch-ka, ch-ka, ch-ka_ of turning train wheels getting closer was punctuated by the soft, sorrowful, echoing whistle of the train. There was a drawn out hiss of steam as the train settled to a stop in front of the station.

“I need you to stay awake a little longer, Irene,” Arthur told her, and Irene nodded sleepily and stood up to shuffle after him towards the train. England rummaged around in the bag and pulled out the two lumps of coal, handing them to the engineer. The conductor appeared and opened the door to the first passenger car.

Once more, England helped his daughter step up.

Irene blinked and found herself in a narrow, richly carpeted hallway, dimly lit by gas lamps in frosted glass and gilt, set on low. Arthur steered her towards a passenger compartment and sat her down on one of the soft seats as the train started up again, the _ch-ka, ch-ka_ of the wheels speeding up into a fast _ch-ch ch-ch ch-ch_.

She leaned against the wall and looked out the window. The train took a long, rolling turn in the track and sped along the top of the cliff, overlooking the ocean. Irene could see now that Miacel had deposited them on the shore of a large bay. She heard something like thunder off in the distance.

“Do you think it’s raining where we’re going?” she asked, yawning again.

England leaned forward and pulled on the gold cords holding the curtains back, letting the thick fabric fall in front of the glass.

“If it _is_ raining in Morningtown right now, it won’t be when we get there,” he said. “Go to sleep now, love.”

Irene blinked heavily a few times as Arthur reached into his bag and pulled out the jars, now filled with black wool, and his knitting needles. He opened one of the jars and pulled out a pinchful of the wool away from the rest, twirling it into a loose, yarn-like cord before wrapping it around the end of one of the needles.

“Irene,” he said gently, noticing her still watching. “Bedtime.”

She closed her eyes and sighed deeply, lowering herself down to curl up on the seat. She pulled the end pillow under her head and shifted a bit to get comfortable; eventually falling asleep to the soft sound of train wheels and the quiet clicking of knitting needles.


	17. 2047: December

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is largely based off of the events in HetaOni. If you haven’t watched/played/heard of/read a summary of it, you might be completely lost and have the whole thing spoiled to boot. If this is the case, and if you have hours to spare, you can go watch the original walkthrough with subs on SotetAG’s Youtube channel, or the HetaOni English Project walkthroughs on Kyokoon64’s Youtube channel. 
> 
> If you need a refresher or just want to read this chapter, click the 'more notes' link below to get a summary of what happened in HetaOni.
> 
> Flashback scenes are in italics.
> 
> Also, there are a lot of dead people.

The dull _thunk_ , _thunk_ , _thunk_ reverberated through the room.

Giovanna sighed and covered her eyes.

“Cass, if you’re _that_ bored, come say hello to my fiancé.”

“But I _said_ hello already!” he protested, gripping an old book tightly in his hands, like it was his last life line to sanity.

His sister turned around on the couch and gave him a Look.

“Saying _‘hey’_ and then going straight to the bookshelf does _not_ count as hello,” she told him.

Santiano placed a hand gently on her knee; and Zell lobbed a roasted peanut at her cousin.

It was Switzerland’s turn to host the European Nations’ Christmas Party, and as per the Vatican’s specifications, everyone had arrived early that Christmas Eve morn so there could be a communal lunch and a candlelight mass in the evening.

Now it was nearing nine-thirty in the morning, still more than three hours to go until lunch, and Cassiel was starting to drive everyone up the wall.

“I should have brought my prototypes,” he said for the fifth time within recent memory.

“They wouldn’t have gotten past security on the plane,” Øystein told him again, patience starting to wear thin. “We _talked_ about this.”

Cassiel shoved the book back into the shelf, slamming the end into the back of the case.

“But I’m so _bored!_ ”

“I’d tell you to come hold Loni,” Giuditta said. “But I don’t trust you with my baby right now.”

Catarina sighed. Her husband reached over and stroked her hair.

“I wonder how Tai is doing,” she murmured.

Zheng kissed her cheek.

“I’m sure he’s fine. _Bába_ is taking care of him. And he sent us an e-mail just last week, remember?”

“I want him here.”

“We have Fabrizia,” he reminded her, and glanced over to where their daughter was playing with Apollonia. Roksana, utilizing her newfound crawling skills, kept trying to pilfer one of the colorful plastic things that were so intensely fascinating to them at the moment, but the two older girls wouldn’t let them out of their sight.

Heinrich leaned forward a little from his babysitting seat on the floor and shook a plush toy slightly. It jingled.

“Here, Roksana. You want this one?”

She made a grab for it, but unbalanced herself and started to fall over sideways. Heinrich caught her and scooped her up in his arms, placing the toy against her chest. Roksana gurgled and started swatting at it with her hand.

Heinrich smiled down at her and started bouncing the infant.

“Heinz, if you want a baby so much, get married already.”

The smiled disappeared a little bit and he rolled his eyes.

“You’re not married either, Vasco,” he reminded the other man. “And tell your brother to stop hitting on the little darling’s mother.”

“You did not _seriously_ just use the words _‘little darling’_ , did you?” János said in disbelief, looking up from his prosthetic arm. Tomoko was examining it with interest, mentally comparing it to the models she was used to working with.

“Yes, I did,” Heinrich said. 

“My brain won’t leave me alone!” Cassiel said desperately, hands gripping his hair. _“I need something productive to do!”_

“Go cheer up Armas,” Sonnehilde told him, jerking a thumb towards the other man. “Hey, I _know_ you’re missing your brother, but it’s Christmas. Cheer up. Your souls have been saved.”

“Technically, that’s Easter,” Giovanna reminded her.

“It’s still already happened; and you should celebrate it.”

Heinrich sighed.

“Also Hanukkah,” she added.

“Thank you.”

“Does anyone have a watch that needs fixing or _something?_ ”

“Since when are you a watchmaker?” Rémy asked Cassiel curiously.

“Don’t you know?” Ásdís said dryly. “He does _everything._ ”

“Something needs to happen,” Cassiel said, starting to pace around the room. “Something new, and interesting! _I want excitement in my life!_ ”

“Take a walk,” Santiano suggested.

“But I’ve already _seen_ Martigny!”

“So go the other way,” Zell told him. “The last time we were here we never went up into the woods.”

“But that’s _trees,_ ” her cousin protested. “Trees and trees and then _more trees._ ”

“And rocks,” János supplied. “Snow this time of year, too.”

“Cass, you’re in the Alps here,” Øystein said. “Take advantage of that.”

“And there’s nothing wrong with trees,” Miervaldis told him irritably.

“Even if you don’t go, _I_ will,” Rémy decided. “We’ve got enough time before lunch for a nice walk- see the scenery and everything.”

“I want to come!” Tomoko said.

“And me,” Vasco added.

Zheng stood up.

“Cato?” he asked his wife.

Catarina stood as well, and fixed Armas with a firm look.

“You’re coming with us. Sitting and brooding about who isn’t here isn’t good for anyone’s mental health. A distraction will do you good.”

“Have fun,” Zell told them, picking up one of the books Cassiel had left on the end table.

“Santiano, do-”

“Let’s, Gianna.”

“I’m staying here with the children,” Giuditta said, not surprising anyone.

“Us too,” Ásdís said, pointing to Øystein. “We need a break from Cass.”

_"Hey!”_

“Cass, you’re overbearing,” Sonnehilde informed him, grabbing his arm and pulling him towards the forming walking group. “Get that into your head.”

Teodozja took Roksana from Heinrich.

“You don’t have to take her,” Giuditta said. “We can watch her.”

Dosia smiled at her.

“Actually, I thought _Herr_ Beilschmidt might like to go.”

Heinrich pushed his hair back a little.

“You say that and it sounds like you’re talking to my uncle,” he muttered. “Ditta-”

“We can manage,” she told him. “Go for a walk. We’ve got Ásdís and Øystein and Cenzo and Lorenza-”

Giuditta glanced over at her brother and heavily-pregnant sister-in-law.

“-at least, I think so.”

“I’m not moving,” Lorenza muttered. Vincenzo draped an arm across her shoulders and pulled her into him a little.

“Just get going. The earlier you leave, the longer you have to explore.”

* * *

“ _See?_ It’s just _trees!_ ”

“Look, some people here _like_ trees,” Miervaldis snapped. “They’re important parts of this planet and pretty besides, so if you’re going to keep whining, go do it somewhere else. _Where I can’t hear you._ ”

Cassiel groaned a little and started dragging his feet.

“Cass, you’re a grown man,” Giovanna told him sternly. “ _Act_ like it.”

“But I’m _bored._ ”

“That’s no reason!”

Sonnehilde, used to her cousin’s ways from a childhood of his visits, rolled her eyes and wandered off further up the path they’d found.

“Nia!” her brother called after her.

She waved vaguely at him over her shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah, Heinrich, I know, don’t go far. I won’t get lost.”

“What’s so bad about trees?” Rémy asked.

“They- They’re-” Cassiel said vaguely, trying to grasp his point.

“See? _Nothing,_ ” Miervaldis told him. “Now stop complaining.”

Cato sighed and sat down by the edge of the path.

“Break time,” she announced. “I thought we were going for a _walk,_ not a _hike._ ”

“It’s a mountain range,” Armas told her. “What did you expect?”

“I like it,” Tomoko said. “It reminds me of the house in Hokkaidō. I’ve been spending too much time in Nara lately.”

Zheng sighed and sat down with Cato.

“City boy,” János accused playfully, and elbowed him as best he could with his prosthetic arm.

“Yes, because that explains why _you’re_ sitting down, too.”

“Can we _go_ now?” Cassiel demanded.

 _“No,”_ Giovanna told him firmly; while her fiancé looked uncertain beside her.

“There’s another path over here.”

Everyone looked at Heinrich, who was curiously inspecting what looked more like an animal trail than anything.

“I don’t think I would call that a _path,_ necessarily,” Rémy told his brother-in-law.

“I’m going to go look,” Vasco decided, and started walking.

 _“Finally!”_ Cassiel exclaimed, and ran after him.

“But it’s almost lunch-” Santiano tried to say.

 _“Cassiel we don’t know what’s back there!”_ his sister yelled after him.

“He’s finally found something to keep him from complaining,” Miervaldis said. “Just let him have fun for a little bit.”

Rémy checked the time on his phone.

“It _is_ almost lunch though.”

“So when Cass and Vasco get back, we’ll head back to Mr. Zwingli’s,” Cato told him, and flopped back into the snow. “I’m hungry and we’ve walked too much.”

“We’re going to have walk all the way back.”

“Ugh, János, you didn’t have to remind me.”

Heinrich fidgeted.

“I’ll… go get Nia, then.”

He tromped through the few inches of the most-undisturbed snow on the path ahead of him, following his sister’s footprints.

“You’re going to get wet like that,” Zheng murmured, pushing some hair out of wife’s face.

“There’s a fireplace at the house.”

A sudden crash echoed through the forest.

“Cass-! Shiii-”

“Ahhhhh _GIANNA!_ ”

Everyone dashed down the path.

* * *

Giovanna abruptly reached the end of the path at a rocky outcropping, screened by torn vegetation.

“Cass. You’re in there, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he said faintly.

She huffed and yanked on more of the vines and green growing things. They separated from the dirt they were anchored in, spattering little soil clods and tiny pebbles all around her.

There was a cave- not even really a cave, more like a recess into the mountain.

And a hole in the floor.

Giovanna took a few careful steps into the recess and knelt down next to the edge of the hole.

Cassiel was hanging a yard or so below her, clutching to a rope ladder, eyes wide.

“How did you miss this?”

“Um, well-”

“Is Vasco in there with you?” Cato demanded, leaning over her cousin’s shoulder.

“Uhh…”

“Cato?” her brother asked, voice much fainter.

Giovanna sighed as she heard the rest of the group catch up with them.

“Cassiel. Just tell us what you did so we can get done with the yelling already.”

“Okay. So, Vasco was ahead of me, right? And then I came over and-”

_“You ran into me!”_

“You shouldn’t have been standing right there!” he protested.

“And you kicked me _in the head_ on the way dow-ow, ow, _ow-_ ”

“Vasco, what hurts?” Cato asked quickly, switching into doctor mode. “Is your vision blurry? Are you dizzy?”

“My hands are all torn up-”

“Can you find the end of the ladder?”

“Here, move,” Armas said quietly, and gently pushed Giovanna away. “Cassiel, do you need help climbing up?”

“Yes please,” he replied, voice small.

Armas reached into the pit and grabbed his hand. As soon as Cassiel was out of the pit, he dove for one of the natural stone pillars at the entrance to the cave and clung to it.

“I hate falling I hate falling I hate falling-”

“Vasco?” Cato called again.

“I can’t find it!”

Armas grabbed the top of the rope lengths and started pulling. Soon, he was holding the end of the ladder.                      

“The ends of this look burned.”

“Why would someone burn a rope ladder?” Tomoko asked.

“To keep someone down there,” Miervaldis said.

A heavy silence descended.

“That was really morbid,” János told him after a few moments.

 _“What if there are dead people down here?”_ Vasco screeched.   

“Then they’re _dead_ and can’t do anything to you,” Rémy called.

“Uh, act-” Cassiel started to say, but Giovanna preemptively shoved him to the ground.

_“What if someone was escaping some serial murderer and they’re **still down here?** ”_

“Calm down!” Cato ordered. “It would have had to be something recent and someone would have mentioned it to us when we came here! Vasco, go look around a little. Can you see anything helpful?”

Her brother disappeared from the bottom of the pit into the gloom.

“We’re going to be late for lunch,” Santiano remarked. “Should we call-”

“This tunnel looks natural but has suspiciously precise right-angle turns,” Vasco announced, voice faint. “And _agh!_ ”

 _“Vasco!”_ Cato called.

“‘m fine! There’s just a hole in the wall and I stuck my hand in it it’s **_squishy_** ew ew ew ew _ew_ it smells _rotten_ -”

“Uh, hey?” Heinrich asked, coming up the path.

“Damn it, it’s way too dark down here!” he complained. “Just a second-”

“Vasco, _do you still have your lighter?_ ” Cato demanded.

“Uh-”

_“You told me you quit smoking!”_

“Now isn’t the time to get annoyed about that,” Zheng told her quietly.

_“You’re going to get yourself **killed,** Vasco!”_

“Where’s Nia?” Tomoko asked Heinrich. “You _did_ find her, right?”

Vasco appeared back into the faint light immediately under the top of the pit.

“There’s a door down here,” he announced.

“Does it open?”

“Yeah, I pushed it a little-”

“I think it goes to the house,” Heinrich said.

“House?” Rémy asked.

"Nia found it. Further up the path. It’s not _much_ of a house anymore, but there’s not anything else up for it to go to-”

“Vasco? Go through that door and find a way up, okay?” Cato called down, standing. “We’ll find the ground entrance and meet you there.”

“Can’t you just go get a ladder?”

“You _want_ to wait around at the bottom of a pit for a couple hours while we go back and find one? Fine.”

“All right, all right; I’m _going._ You’d better find that other door!”

* * *

“Wow,” János said. “This really _isn’t_ much of a house, is it?”

Behind a high, crumbling stone wall and rusty iron gates hanging precariously askew was the remains of what had probably once been a very nice Alpine mansion, before whatever calamity had reduced it mostly to rubble had occurred.

The extensive front gardens had burst their boundaries over time, low-lying scrub that would, come spring, blossom into liverleaf and aster and avens dotting the grass that had had overrun the gravel path leading up to the door. The water features were stagnant and silent, clogged with algae and crumbled brick, kept full only by rain and snowmelt.

The house itself was little more than a mostly-collapsed shell. The south wing, by the gardens, was tangled in ivy and other creeping vines, the occasional young pine twisting out of the broken stone and decomposing wood beams. The north wing was in a little better condition, but its proximity to the largest of the artificial pools had sped up the decay, leaving only rusty bits of metal and rock cracked by the slow seasonal cycle of ice to water and back again.

The main house had kept only the front door, part of the outside wall, and a bit of the main staircase standing.

“Huh.”

“What?” Miervaldis asked from where he was digging through rubble.

“The door only opens from the outside,” Cassiel said, opening the burnt, iron-bound wood again and walking through. He closed it behind him and rattled the doorknob. “See? I didn’t lock it or anything.”

“So how are we supposed to find a basement door in this wreck?” Santiano asked.

“Well, where do you usually put a basement door?” Cassiel asked.

“Under the stairs,” Armas said promptly.

“Kitchen,” Nia said.

“Hallway,” Tomoko added.

“We know where the stairs are,” Rémy said, gesturing to the mostly-collapsed structure. “But not anything else.”

“Well, _I’m_ going to go look,” Nia announced, and started towards the north wing.

“Hey! Don’t go off by yourself!” János called. “What if the floor is unstable?”

She stopped and stomped on the ground a few times.

“Hear that? Nothing but dirt. There’s no basement here to fall into.”

“But then where does that tunnel come out?” Heinrich wanted to know.

“Just because there isn’t a basement right here doesn’t mean it’s not under a different part of the house,” Cato said. “We can split up and look, but make sure you go in at least pairs. If you get hurt I might be able to help; but even a doctor won’t do you much good without any supplies.”

“Hey,” Armas said, poking Heinrich. “Help me with the stairs?”

The two of them started moving debris as everyone else but Cassiel, who was still occupied with the door, wandered off in different directions to look for a basement entrance.

“You take that end and I’ll pull over here- _slowly-_ ”

Together, they heaved one of the stair beams out from under the structure. The precarious jumble of masonry shifted a little, and Heinrich jumped back as part of it collapsed, forming a miniature landslide between him and Armas.

“Hm,” the other man said, looking the pile up and down. “I think I can actually make a hole through this-”

Heinrich knelt down to examine the newly-fallen rubble.

“This is a _really weird_ door,” Cassiel remarked.

“Stop messing with it and come help,” Armas snapped at him. “It’s _your_ fault he fell, anyway.”

“It is _not_ my fault,” Cassiel grumbled, but came over to help move debris. Heinrich tugged at some paper sticking out of the rocks.

“Knew it,” Armas said after a few minutes. “There’s a space back here. Heinrich-”

He paused and looked over at him.

“Never mind, you have your father’s shoulders. Cass, can you fit in there? I don’t want to make it any bigger and have it collapse.”

“There are probably _spiders_ back there,” he protested, but crawled in part way.

Then he turned over.

“Cass?” Armas asked suspiciously.

His lower body wriggled as he tried to readjust himself.

“There’s a _really_ nice grandfather clock in here,” he called back. “I can’t see too much of it but I think it still works-”

Heinrich opened the red leather-bound book he’d dug out of the rubble-slide and opened it.

“-yeah, it probably does, I got the lower door open and there’s a bunch of stuff stuck in here that’s jammed it up.”

“Uh-” Heinrich started to say, staring at the first page of the book. “Hey? _Hey,_ you two-”

“Huh, I think this is handkerchief. Weird. I-Ah! Ugh! _Rocks!_ Tiny rocks are falling on my face!”

The pendulum of the clock finished its arrested swing, and the second hand ticked forward.

Cassiel blinked rapidly and sat up, trying to rub the debris out of his eyes.

Then he noticed he was sitting up.

He looked around at the small cream-colored room with the black tile floor. The great mahogany-and-brass grandfather clock was ticking away unassumingly behind him, despite not having been wound in decades.

Cassiel stood up, opened the door, and walked through.

The stairs were behind him and the front door was to his left, standing firmly in now-erect walls.

Heinrich and Armas were gone.

He tried the front door.

True to form, it was locked.

He turned around.

The door to the clock room, under the stairs, had vanished.

He looked down at the handkerchief with England’s crest on it, and then back up and around at the T-section hallway.

“Well damn.”

* * *

“Nia, trying to apply logic to this situation is _not going to help!_ ”

“It has to,” she said, pacing across the sprawling, empty floor. “It _has to,_ János! _It has to._ ”

“It’s not going to _help_ because there _is_ no logic to it!” János half-yelled at her.

She whirled around, the rubber bottoms of her sneakers squeaking on the waxed wooden floor. The sound echoed back faintly from the ceiling, two stories above.

“ _We were looking around and then a ballroom appeared!”_

_“ **Exactly!** That’s why there’s **no logic!** ”_

“János, there _has_ to be cause and effect here _somewhere_ you can’t have an action just randomly happen well okay _fine_ you _can_ but not like _this_ oh my God _János_ there are _bars_ on the _windows_ this _cannot be a good sign!_ ”

 “Nia, let go of my shirt and _breathe._ Everyone else was exploring in the ruins too. They should still be around somewhere. We just have to go find them; or get back to the front door and leave and wait for them to come out. _It is going to be all right._ ”

“We’re in the north wing!” she exclaimed, sounding a bit desperate. “There has to be a door back to the main house _somewhere!_ ”

Sonnehilde abruptly let go of his shirt and ran for the hallway visible through the breaks in the wall separating the colonnaded ballroom from the rest of the house.

_"Nia-!”_

János sighed in frustration and started running after her; reaching the hallway just in time to see her more than halfway down it. He slowed his pace and let her draw further ahead, pausing a moment to stare at the wall facing the ballroom entrance.

It wasn’t technically just a hallway, he realized. It was a long gallery, with old-style oil portraits running down it as far as he could see.

He backtracked a few feet to stand in front of the first portrait, directly across from the ballroom. The little brass plaque underneath was engraved:

_Justus Georg Faust  
1526_

The portrait itself was of a young man, his slightly-haunted expression shadowed slightly by a small, floppy cloth hat with a pin and a feather in it. His shoulders looked a little wide, and he seemed to be wearing the awkwardly-poofy doublets that János had always thought made these people in the old portraits look ridiculous.

The next portrait was of an older man, hair and beard white, his high, stiff doublet collar ending in ruffles around his cheekbones.

János thought that perhaps it was the previous man’s father, or maybe his uncle or something that had taken over the mansion and grounds after he died. The plaque said it was

_Sebastian Xavier Sheinfeld  
1563_

but provided no further information.

He proceeded to the next few portraits, and was forced to reevaluate his assessments about the portraits being of the mansion owners.

_Martino Elio Trucco  
1612_

_Espiridión Enrique Aristides Macías y Abana  
1638_

_Móric Pesty  
1666_

_Demetrios Vasilis Iordanou  
1697_

It appeared… scattered. There were portraits here, extremely well-kept despite their likely age, of people from all across Europe- and there was no way this tiny Alpine plot had changed through so many diverse hands _that_ fast. At the very least, the owners should have been primarily German, with perhaps a few Frenchmen and the bare possibility of an Italian.

And, under some of the nameplates, further down, were yet more plaques- these simply with names.

“ _János!_ János János _János!_ ”

He ran down the rest of the hall towards Sonnehilde.

She was feeling desperately along the end of the hallway.

“János, János there’s no _door,_ _why_ is there no _door-_ ”

“I-” he started to say, but his thoughts flew away from him and he was left standing there, mouth open, with nothing to say to that.

“There- There was a balcony,” Nia said, obviously trying to reassure herself. “In the ballroom. Over the hallway entrances. There have to be stairs up there. The door’s just on the second floor, we just have to find those stairs.”

“But I’ve seen the whole hallway,” János said before he could think about it. “There were no stairs.”

" _You’re not helping!”_ Nia screeched, and grabbed the front of his shirt again. “János, there _have_ to be stairs and door we _can’t_ be stuck in here _there are bars on the windows_ that ladder was burnt to keep people _down there_ there _has_ to be a door _this cannot be a **prison-**_ ”

János grabbed her arm with his one good hand and tried to shake her back a little.

“ _You can’t panic,_ Nia! If you panic it just gets wor-”

“What? What?” she asked frantically. “János _don’t just trail off on me like that!_ ”

She let of his shirt and turned around to look at he was staring.

The last portrait in the gallery had a cracked frame where it looked like someone had tried to tear the painting out. The canvas was torn and hanging around a few places on the edge, and the oils were cracked like frost across the whole piece, but the subject was still clearly visible.

 _Feliciano Costa Vargas_  
Kingdom of Italy (Veneziano)  
1945

Eleven plaques were arranged underneath.

_Lovino Agresta Vargas  
Kingdom of Italy (Romano)_

_Gilbert Beilschmidt  
Free State of Prussia_

_Ludwig Beilschmidt  
Greater German Reich_

_Francis Bonnefoy  
Fourth French Republic_

_Ivan Braginski  
Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic_

_Antonio Fernandez Carreido  
Spanish State_

_Honda Kiku  
Empire of Great Japan_

_Alfred Franklin Jones  
United States of America_

_Arthur Kirkland  
Kingdom of England_

_Wang Yao  
Republic of China_

_Matthew Williams  
Canada_

“What the hell?” János said under his breath.

Then, as they watched, the plaques shifted slowly sideways, across the wall.

“- _sanctificetur Nomen Tuum; adveniat Regnum Tuum_ -” Sonnehilde recited frantically. _“János this is not supposed to be **happening-** ”_

_Stoptalkingstoptalkingstop **talking-** ”_

Thirteen new plaques formed out of the wall, set a little ways apart from the other group.

_Heinrich Marco Costa Beilschmidt_

_Sonnehilde Lavinia Costa Beilschmidt_

_Rémy Fabrice Beilschmidt_

_Catarina Constantia Agresta Carreido_

_Vasco Durante Agresta Carreido_

_János Béla Héderváry-Edelstein_

_Miervaldis Galante_

_Honda Tomoko_

_Santiano Miccichelo_

_Cassiel Pietri Beilschmidt-Navin_

_Giovanna Beilschmidt Pietri-Navin_

_Armas Oxentierna_

_Wang Zheng_

“János _our names are on the wall-_ ”

“Door. _Now._ ”

 _Feliciano Costa Vargas_  
Kingdom of Italy/Republic of Italy  
(Veneziano)  
1945/2046

* * *

“…This is not where we just were.”

“No it is not.”

Rémy crossed his arms and stared around at the bookshelves.

“I’m not sure what I want to do about this.”

“Well, I know what _I’m_ not going to do,” Miervaldis said.

“What?”

“I am not going to panic.”

“Probably a good idea,” Rémy agreed.

“Are _you_ going to panic?”

“I hope not.”

“Well then.”

The library was quite large, each row of shelves back up against the far wall. A door was just visible behind the end of the current row they were standing in.

The books, Rémy noticed, were disquietingly identical. Red, blue, or green leather-bound, exactly the same shape, exactly the same height, exactly the same thickness- organized by color, always the same color in the same amount in the same order on the rows; always stacked vertically on the same shelf on the same side.

And the floorboards. Exact same color, exact same arrangement, no patterning whatsoever.

Perfectly normal for flooring.

That wasn’t _real wood._

“What am I supposed to say about this!” Miervaldis burst out suddenly. “Th- We were- and then- we didn’t- it was- _walls!_ ”

“I know,” Rémy said, staring at the ceiling.

_“How does that even work?”_

“No clue. I don’t suppose you have an explanation for the lighting situation?”

“Huh?”

“The lighting situation,” he repeated.

“ _What_ lighting situation? I can see just fine.”

“I know. That’s the situation.”

“ _R_ _émy-_ ”

“We’ve looked around a little already,” he said, a frown starting to form on his face. “There aren’t any windows. We know that. There are no light fixtures.”

Miervaldis looked up.

“Disguised panels?” he suggested weakly.

“Do you see a sort of faint glow from the ceiling?” Rémy asked. “Because _I_ don’t.”

“That’s actually kind of creepy,” the other man said after a few moments.

“And I don’t remember seeing any light switches,” Rémy continued, averting his gaze from the ceiling. “But I think we could stand to take another look-”

Miervaldis’s hand clamped over his mouth and Rémy was dragged backwards, back down the row of books to the far wall.

“Mmmhh!” he tried to say, but Miervaldis wedged them both into a corner and tightened his grip.

There was a sudden flash of gray across the mouth of the row. The impression of legs, a head-

Claws. Sharp teeth.

-was all the filtered through the dark blur.

Rémy went still in Miervaldis’s grasp.

The door closest to them opened, unseen but heard, then closed.

For a few moments, the only sound was their breathing.

Miervaldis’s hand lifted away.

“That was _huge,_ ” Rémy said faintly, and slid down to the floor. “What _was_ that thing? That was _big._ ”

Miervaldis joined him on the floor.

“I have no idea.”

“It looked violent.”

“You didn’t even really see it.”

“Then call it a feeling, okay? But it’s huge and weird-shaped and I _don’t_ want to be around it.”

“So… we’re staying in here then?”

“ _Hell_ yes. That _thing_ is out _there_ now!”

“What if comes back?”

Rémy considered that question.

“There _are_ two doors-”

 _“Two?”_ Miervaldis asked, confused. “I counted three.”

* * *

Feliciano was starting to get the feeling that just _maybe_ Slovenia wasn’t as interested in Friuli and Venezia Giulia as he was when his phone vibrated in his pocket.

Slovenia looked at his slightly-guilty expression and immediately ordered him to take the call before hurriedly inserting himself into Herzegovina’s current social circle, which was conspicuously missing Bosnia.

Veneziano spared a moment to look around for Jadranka and maybe ask if she and her wife had had another lover’s quarrel and interfere before Hungary could, but his phone vibrated again and he got a guilty reminder that he had things he was apparently supposed to be doing.

He slipped out into the hallway, closing the door to Switzerland’s spacious living room for privacy.

“ _Salve,_ _signor_ Veneziano _parlo_ -”

“ _Babbo-_ ”

His son’s voice was so small and scared that, for a moment, Feliciano could only think of another call, years ago, a few days after he’d woken up in the middle of the night and felt Venice and Rome and his brother’s heartbeat, all the way from Madrid, and looked over at Ludwig sleeping beside him in the bed and reached out for the first time to the children he had raised, and vague impressions of dreams and calm settled into his mind to where they’d always belonged; and said his silent goodbyes in the dark before morning and left his still-human love an empty bed and abandoned ring to wake up to, no note and no husband, and walked to Rome in something like fifteen minutes, because Nations and humans were not meant to ever truly live together.

Not that it had stopped anyone from keeping their children.

“Heinrich?” he asked anxiously. “Uh- why are you calling me? We’re both-”

“W-We went for a walk, up in the woods, because Cass was getting annoying and complaining and wanted something interesting to happen and we were on this path but then we stopped and I found another one and Cass and Vasco went exploring and fell down this hole and Cass could climb back out but Vasco couldn’t because the ladder was burned and I had just found Nia and Vasco said there was a door and I told everyone it probably went to the house Nia-”

_“House?”_

Feliciano tried very, very hard to keep his voice even but there was a trembling in his arms and legs and it was reaching his mouth and the world was starting to tilt just a little, the old rug over the wooden hall floor reaching towards the sky and _this could not be happening it **couldn’t** be _ these were their _**children**_ humans who had lived short happy human lives and never gone to war and never seen people killed and never fought for their lives and never done _‘necessary’_ instead of _‘right’_ and never felt the slow creep of mental poison as governments and people turned on each other and never-

“ _Babbo_?” Heinrich asked again, in that small voice; and Veneziano realized he couldn’t _feel him_. “Are you still there?”

-they had never known what it was like to split apart or have the world fall out from under their feet and fall and crumble and burn in days and weeks that felt like seconds they’d never been so sick that they couldn’t move or hurt so badly that they stopped thinking they’d never had to _JUST KEEP **GOING-**_

“Please, _please,_ _per favore_ , _Babbo_ , _please_ still be there I don’t know what to _do_ please your name was in the book you _have_ to know-”

They’d never lain in blood on the ground staring up at the sky or taken a wrong step and have the cliff slip from under them or hear the rafters of a building on fire groan above them or been blown of the deck of a ship in the wind and the rain or turned in battle to see the enemy _right there_ or taken a breath to choke on almonds and mustard and-

Oh God they were going to die.

They didn’t know how to do these things and they were going to die.

He only just managed to turn his sob into a whimper.

“ _Babbo_ , what-”

“You found the book?” Veneziano demanded.

“Armas and Cass and I tried moving this rubble pile and there was some clock behind it and Cass tried to get it working and I found the book in the bits that fell down and then I was in this room with the book and Cass and Armas were gone and the _house_ was back it was in ruins when we found it _Babbo the world isn’t supposed to **work** like this_ we were just trying to find the basement-”

**_“Don’t go in the basement!”_ **

There was silence at the other end of the line for a moment, and the trembling got worse _what if the connection cut off what if that- that- snuck up on him and he didn’t notice and he’s **dead-**_

“But Vasco’s in the basement,” Heinrich said in that small voice.

“Where are you? Where are you _right now?_ ”

“There- um- there’s a piano-”

“Get out. _Right now._ ”

“It- Is it- It’s not safe in here is it-”

“You will _never_ be safe,” Feliciano told him, voice going raspy from the strain of keeping his voice as calm as he could. “Don’t _ever_ assume that you are safe, there is _no place_ in that house where you shouldn’t be fearing for your life-”

“ _Babbo where are we?”_

“Go down the stairs and turn right then left and left again first door on your right there’s a door in the back corner I’ll come get you there don’t you _dare_ leave that room unless it would mean death not to-”

“ _Where **are** we?”_

“Heinrich _get down those stairs!_ ”

He moved away from the door. The others didn’t need to hear this they _shouldn’t_ hear this-

“ ** _Babbo!_** ” his son half-screamed at him through the phone. “ ** _Where are we?_** Why is it so dangerous _just tell me where I am!_ ”

“ _Der Teufelhaus_.”

Silence. Terrified silence.

_‘The Demon’s House’?”_

“ _Ten minutes,_ Heinrich,” he managed. “Just get to that room I’ll be there in _ten minutes_ to get you and everyone else.”

He hung up before his son could ask any more questions, walked down the hall to the bathroom, shut the door, and retched into the toilet.

Feliciano slipped down onto his knees, shaking so badly he couldn’t see straight, clutching the edges of the bowl, wavering sobs and the _plink-plink_ of tears made louder by the cold porcelain.

* * *

_Spain smiled weakly, eyes focused slightly off to the side of Romano’s face, at the line of third-floor library bookshelves._

_“My wit-hn.”_

_Romano just kept staring at him, face limp and slightly hopeless._

_“Ah, my wit’s not as good as you think, Lovi. England certainly wasn’t convinced.”_

_“England?”_

_“Yeah, he was here while you were out on the floor and I told him about us and the future and time-travel and how we needed him to send us back! But he just got angry and refused to use his magic for our time and stormed off-”_

_“The fuck-”_

_Romano grabbed one of the higher shelves behind him and hauled himself off the floor._

_“Lovi-!” Spain started to exclaim, jerking forward to help him._

_Lovino glared at him for a moment and shoved his hands away._

_“I’m not going to fucking_ collapse! _”_

_He straightened up and winced slightly, his free hand moving slightly towards his chest- fingers curled like he wanted to squeeze or claw at his heart._

_“When did he leave?” he asked, wheezing slightly._

_“H-”_

“England,” _Romano snapped. “When did England leave?”_

_“Uh- a minute or two ago? Not that lo-”_

_The other Nation- human now, human, they_ had _to remember they weren’t invincible- stumbled a little, caught his footing, and slammed the door to the library open. At the stairs he had a moment of indecision- up or down?_

_Lovino closed his eyes and thought of his brother._

-deaddeaddeaddeaddead darkness NOTHING one three four-

_He went upstairs._

_England was pacing the hallway leading to the lever room, muttering slightly to himself, hands alternately in his hair or behind his back._

_“England,” Romano said as loudly as he could, leaning against the wall slightly for support._

_He didn’t stop pacing, but gave him a silent, angry look._

_“In this time,” Lovino said, as evenly as he could. “My brother is dead, isn’t he?”_

_England’s eyes remained fixed on the floor, and his eyebrows furrowed._

_“Second floor,” he murmured. “Across from the room with the fireplace.”_

_Lovino reached for his crucifix, lying against his skin under his shirt and jacket, and tried to ignore the heartbeat in his chest, half as strong as it should have been._

_“When we left, he wasn’t. He was alive. Dam- Not himself, exactly, but alive.”_

_No response._

_“This time you’re in,_ we’re _in- it ends. It’s fated to. Someone- you- use the book, and we go through a third time. And then a fourth, and fifth, and-”_

“I won’t leave them to **die!** ” _England hissed, fists clenched at his sides._

 _“If you help us, you won’t be,” Romano told him, resisting the urge to lean his head against the wall and fall asleep. If he fell asleep out here, in the open, he’d never open his eyes again. “I- Fe- my brother_ _is dead now, you said. He’ll_ stay _dead unless you use the book- which I_ know _you will. And you can’t do that with_ us _here.”_

_The other Nation’s face twisted, but he kept silent._

_“What will happen to us if we’re still here when you do that?” he asked, replying to the unspoken question. “We’re not from this time. Turning time_ back _isn’t very fucking likely to send us_ forward. _Are we going to stop existing? We’ll never get back to the time we’re supposed to be in; and if we’re not there if the book is used in_ our _time, what do you think the chances are of us still being around? Maybe we will be; maybe we won’t. If we do, will we always die, and never finally resurrect when we all get out to compensate for our nonexistence?”_

_“You’re just theorizing to try and make me feel guilty,” England spat._

_Romano pushed himself away from the wall and walked into the other man’s line of travel, limping ever so slightly._

_“You’re willing to kill us, Arthur?” he asked, looking him straight in the eyes. “You’d turn us down when we’d asked for help at the risk of destroying us for good?”_

_“You have_ no proof- _”_

_“Do I need it? You’d take responsibility for the deaths of two more Nations onto your soul willingly?”_

_Brief silence._

_“The others-”_

_“They’ll come back in all the next tries. Feliciano is going to do this until everyone gets out-_ everyone. _No exceptions. You’d be helping him, and us, them, everyone, doing this.”_

_“How am I supposed to defend them without my magic?” Arthur demanded. “They’re- I already didn’t save-”_

_“Send us back, then use the rest of your magic to start over,” Lovino told him. “_ You’ll _be the one to do it, so you’ll be the one to remember this time when everything resets. Talk to Feliciano. You won’t escape next time either, but…”_

_He stared off down the hallway, tired and drained._

_“Maybe the two of you together can make everything a little less worse than if you acted alone.”_

_England was standing barely a foot in front of him, one hand still clenched at his side and the other clamped over his mouth. His eyes had gone stormy, and maybe, just slightly, a little teary._

_“Hey- you won’t be without your magic forever,” Romano said. “You’ll find these lump things. Crystalized magic or some shit. You leave them for yourself at some point-”_

_“Now.”_

_Lovino blinked at him._

_“I do it_ now, _don’t I?” Arthur asked, sounding bitter. “When I send you and Spain back, I do a two-part spell and send you with most of the magic I have now in those lumps, so you can plant them and I can find them later, and then_ I _use up what I have left to start this whole bloody thing over and go completely without it until_ your _time-”_

_He didn’t have anything to say to that; and Arthur turned on his heel and started walking away furiously._

_Romano opened his mouth to call after him, but England gave out an enraged, desperate yell and kicked the wall._

_He stared at the spot he’d kicked, trying to get his temper and tears under control._

_“Does it make any difference?” he asked quietly._

_“Does what make any difference?”_

_“The_ magic!Does it make any difference? _”_

_Lovino took a deep breath and let it out slowly._

_“Yes,” he replied._

_“I don’t want anyone to die,” he said. “I don’t want them to get hurt because of me! I don’t- I don’t want to_ do _this again!”_

 _“No one does. But maybe this time-_ my _time- we can stop it.”_

_Arthur scrubbed at his face with his sleeve and stopped the motion after a moment, eyes still hidden behind the fabric._

_“Go get Spain.”_

* * *

Vasco tripped over what was probably a stool and cursed as he dropped his lighter, the blackness pressing in on all sides.

_Sktch sktch sktch sktch sktch sktch sktch sktch sktch sktch sktch sktch sktch sktch_

_“Shitshitshitshitshitshit-”_

He found the lighter and flicked it on.

A small halo of yellowish light illuminated the area just in front of his face, but nothing more.

The _sktch sktch_ skittering of claws on stone stopped.

Vasco stumbled to his feet and rammed into the side of a table. He felt around in the dark and then nearly ran into a bookshelf someone had left sticking out and the

_tick-tock tick-tock_

of a small clock was abnormally loud and he had to shuffled around the bookcase before finding the door. The creak of the hinges was loud in the silence

_sktch sktch sktch sktch sktch sktch_

and he slammed the door shut behind himself and forced himself not to let his feet move ahead of the little light that he had, and walked slowly down the rough stone hallway, hand bumping across the uneven wall.

After some time of listening to his own breathing and straining his ears for the skittering again- it was impossible to tell how long in this dark- the wall fell away.

Vasco took a few careful steps and waved his hand around, searching blindly for another wall or the door that had to be around somewhere-

-and banged into some metal poles.

The lighter flicked off for a second as he tried to reorient himself

_sktch sktch skt-_

and then he got the light back on, and waved it around the poles, and his stomach twisted and slowly rolled over when he found the lock on the cell door.

* * *

“Well, at least you found a fireplace.”

“This wasn’t the one I had in mind,” Cato said, and pulled the blanket she’d taken off the bed tighter around herself.

Zheng stepped away from the small blaze he’d started and sat down next to her. She leaned sideways slightly to cuddle up against him.

“What are we going to do?”

“I don’t think we have a lot of options here,” he said, looking into the fire. “We can leave the room-”

“No. We don’t know where we are and there is _clearly_ something wrong with this place.”

“Then we have to stay in here, and that’s not going to help us, either.”

Cato sighed.

“And then what if it turns out _this_ isn’t a good place to be?”

"Exactly. And your brother is still out there somewhere on his own.”

“I don’t like this,” she muttered.

“I don’t either.”

The fire crackled a little, then popped.

“What if we just left the house?” Cato asked. “We’re _clearly_ not equipped to deal with this, so why don’t we just leave and go back to Mr. Zwingli’s and ask for help?”

“And leave everyone else?”

“Do _you_ have experience with ruined houses suddenly being not-ruined? Because _I_ don’t. And this is strange enough that they’ve probably at least _heard_ about it.”

“What if this is new?”

“Then we’ll have a lot more help to figure it out.”

* * *

Cristoforo put his water down and concentrated; ignoring the chatter of the party that had everyone else so distracted.

He _couldn’t_ have-

Giovanna could _not_ just disappear out of his mental presence. Each and every one of his two-hundred-odd people was _always_ to be accounted for, ever since the Papal States had been seized by the Kingdom of Italy and he’d felt people suddenly go missing, he’d made sure to keep every single one of his citizens _right_ where he could find them-

She was just down the hallway and around the corner in the sitting room, with everyone else’s children-

He exited the room without anyone noticing and closed the door quietly.

He would not run down the hallway. His daughter was fine. Something had just… gone haywire for a minute or two. That was it.

The small table pushed against the wall opposite the living room was set with two filled-to-overflowing vases of poinsettias, but the brass-edged mirror hanging above it was also reflecting a piece of paper, the handwriting on it familiar even upside-down and backwards in the glass.

He picked it up.

 

_Heinrich called from the House._

_It still wants me and it has our children now. They went walking in the woods and it got them. I am going to the House to get them back don’t come after me._

_Italy_

_Time left 11:57:23_

_THE BOOK WILL NOT BE USED_

The clock at the end of the hall went _bong…bong…bong…bong…_

Cristoforo ran.

_…bong…bong…bong…bong…_

The kitchen was the opposite direction from where the children were and farther away, too, but the Vatican reached it almost immediately, skidded slightly across the tile floor and yanked the back door open.

_...bong…bong…bong…bong._

“…Cristoforo?” Latvia asked, standing from his seat next to Montenegro at the kitchen island.

“Did my brother come through here?” he demanded, staring out over the snow-covered grass. A light, late-morning snowfall was settling softly atop the earlier few inches.

“A few minutes ago,” Raivis told him. “I said hello but he didn’t really say anything back-”

_“Where is your son?”_

The other two Nations stared at him.

“He’s on the other side of the house,” Montenegro said after a moment. “With everyone else.”

“ _No!_ ” the Vatican exclaimed. “Not the last place you saw him! _Where is he?_ ”

Latvia opened his mouth to reply, but then something shifted behind his eyes and fear started to glint through.

“I-I-I-I do- don- I c-can- _Senka-_ ”

Montenegro had fisted her hands in her red skirt and was staring, wide-eyed and unfocused, at the wall.

“Rai? Rai, where’d he-”

Cristoforo handed Latvia the note he hadn’t let go of, slightly crumpled now by his fist.

The other Nation glanced down at it cursorily and went white. The paper collapsed into deep valleys and mountains as his grip tightened.

“Raivis?” Montenegro asked quietly.

He took a deep breath and turned towards her.

“Senka… were you here that day after the war?”

Her frowned.

“What day?”

“We- We had a meeting. Some of us went up into the woods afterwards, and then we had to go-”

“Oh. _Oh._ ”

Her eyes went wide in understanding.

“No, no, Serbia was there for us as Yugoslavia that day.”

She glanced at the paper Latvia was still clutching, terror bleeding through into her expression.

“ _Raivis_ -”

He handed the paper back to Cristoforo and reached up to cradle her face in his hands.

“The Vatican and I are going to be gone for a while. Wait ten minutes before you tell anyone.”

“I don’t recall saying I was going anywhere,” Cristoforo said.

Latvia looked over at him.

“Of course you are. That’s your family too, and I can’t let you go without help.”

The Vatican sighed and looked away after a moment, then hunted down a pen as Raivis and Senka shared a moment.

 _Going after Feliciano,_ he wrote underneath his brother’s letter. _I will try to exorcise the House again; hopefully I will be more effective if inside structure._

 _Gilbert, I’m taking Raivis with me so don’t do anything stupid. I_ will _get our family back unharmed._

_Cristoforo- 12:02:28_

“Latvia,” he said quietly as he handed the letter to Senka.

Montenegro grabbed Latvia’s arm as he started to walk away.

“Feliciano told me a little about that place,” she said. “Be careful. And bring our son back safely.”

Raivis kissed her.

“I promise,” he whispered, and then he and the Vatican walked out the door.

* * *

“Just don’t look at it.”

Santiano shifted uncomfortably on the couch and looked over at his fiancée.

“But-”

“Don’t look at it,” Giovanna said firmly, still staring resolutely at a spot on the wall across from them.

The wall was uniformly white, and completely without texture. There were no pictures hung anywhere to break up the great, bland expanse. The mint-colored rug under their feet sectioned off a small area of floor.

The corner was taken up by a bookshelf and two towers of drawers. A bed stood alone, isolated, in the sweeping, empty floor behind them, a stool placed off to the side.

There were three crates lined up behind the couch, and Santiano couldn’t help but wonder if someone had never finished unpacking, and if that was why the room looked so unfurnished, what was in those crates that could be set up to bounce around the sounds of the breath and the creaks of the couch and the _tap-tap_ of shoes on the floor and the rustling on the bedsheets and the _chk-thumk_ of the wall lever

“The others will tell them we’re gone, and they’ll come looking for us. _Patr_ _ē_ will come. We’ll get rescued.”

and cover the white white featureless walls with spots and splashes of color, scarlet and brown to stand against the white and contrast with the rug and the sheets and give the eyes something to attach to so they didn’t follow the ears down into the tumbling roaring _silence_ that bled from the walls and crawled and oozed across the floor and seeped upwards into his head and dragged everything, _everything_ back to the one bit of color on the wall

“I said don’t look at it!” Giovanna exclaimed, tearing her eyes from the impenetrable, insistent white abyss of the wall to find the couch next to her empty.

Wood creaked behind her.

Gianna spun around and leaned across the back of the couch to grab Santiano’s hand.

“You don’t know what’s in there,” she said, pulling him away from the nearest crate. “So don’t look.”

His eyes wandered from her face to the crates the wall and skidded over the blank surface to the lever, sticking out at a right angle, its instructions hanging next to it.

“I _said,_ don’t look,” Gianna told him, and pulled his face down towards hers.

“Then let’s leave,” he said quietly; and she took in the air he’d just exhaled.

“When you’re lost, you stay put so people can find you easier.”

The wandering eyes came back, and Giovanna pulled him down into a kiss. His eyes stayed open, flicking between the crates and the lever at ninety degrees before settling on the sign.

 _Up is Heaven_  
Middle is Earth  
Down is Hell

 

“Santiano; don’t. Just _don’t._ You’re dead either place you end up.”

* * *

The windows in here were _astounding._

Armas had seen the like in pictures of some of the newer European palaces, with wall after wall after wall of French picture windows, bound with iron muntin bars.

These spilled sunlight across the floor and tables and chairs, and gave a somewhat nice view of the trees beyond the property’s wall.

The cedar mantel of the fireplace, at the far end of the room, practically glowed under the illumination. The massive, carved panel hanging above it shone slightly, the bas relief figures casting twisted shadows across the dark red wood.

Something of the same could be said for the great dining table at the center of the long room, the veneer on the dark wood glinting against the long, thick crimson rug where the carved backs of the chairs weren’t blocking the light and painting sharply-curved lines of darkness that faded away into the wood itself.

Really though, the room could have done without the statues.

They were angels- count them, one two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven- arranged on the wall opposite the windows. The white stone bases blended into the wall behind them, but the angels themselves were colored in the true Greco-Roman style, updated for the times, painted to look real.

Armas took another look at the eyes and the mouths and the hands and decided, with a bit of a shiver, that there was really no reason to be doing such things.

It would be a much better use of his time to examine the door set into the wall between the bookcases, staring into the sooty depths of the cold fireplace from across the dining table.

The handle was brass, and the door matched the bas relief panel, and when he opened it, there was white.

He trailed his fingers down the wall, and wondered how anyone could possibly match the color of bones so consistently.

* * *

Tomoko tried the door again, but _it,_ at least, conformed to some sort of logic and predictability. It stayed as stubbornly locked as it had been the last eight or nine times she’d tried to open it.

This house, however, could clearly not be trusted to do the same.

Tomoko sighed and rested her back against the door, glancing around the room again. There wasn’t much to look at, besides a couple tables and chests of drawers. There was a bookshelf on the back wall, next to a giant, fancily-brocaded red chair, the wood frame heavily gilded.

She’d thought about sitting in that chair, but it looked uncomfortable and just a little foreboding.

 _It’s just a chair,_ she told herself again, but still didn’t quite believe herself.

The squeaking from behind the bookshelf was back.

 _Of_ course. _A house suddenly rebuilds itself, and it brings the rats along._

Tomoko walked over to the bookcase and grabbed the side that was set against the wall, pulling. She had to dig her feet into the floor a few times before it would move, but once it started, it was strangely easy to move aside.

Well, no wonder there were rats. _Someone_ had stuffed a hole in the wall up with ri-

The mochi opened its eyes and cooed at her.

Tomoko screamed a little and immediately clapped a hand over her mouth, breathing through her nose to calm down. The rice ball wriggled around a little in its crack and blinked at her few times before pouting at her pleadingly. It opened its mouth again

 _It’s a_ ball of rice _why does it have_ mouth?

and squeaked at her pathetically a few times.

“Oh _hell_ no,” Tomoko said, and started to shove the bookcase back in place. “You’re _food._ You don’t need me to do a _thing_ for you, and there is _no way_ that you are going _anywhere near_ my mouth.”

The mochi started squealing frantically and she pushed harder.

“You’re food, you’re food, you’re food,” she repeated to herself. “You’re not some little animal, you’re _food._ You are not alive. All your bits are _dead_ things.”

The next noise from behind the bookshelf sounded like a human scream.

Tomoko jumped and then slammed the bookcase against the wall. A few books fell off, and a small shelf clock landed with a thump and rattle on top of it. She bent down and picked it up, checked it for cracks, then put it down on top of one of the chests of drawers.

“Just, just go back to being food,” she told the bookshelf shakily. “Go back to being dead and let whatever spirit has gotten trapped in you go.”

Then she had to sit down for a little bit and not-think about the fact that she’d said aloud that there were spirits involved in this.

She should leave an offering, but she didn’t have any food or money on her. She also didn’t have any cloth, unless she wanted to tear up her clothes.

But there _was_ paper, Tomoko realized. And she had a pen. She could write a prayer.

She leaned over and picked up one of the books that had fallen to the floor. A little part of her protested at the thought of tearing pages out of a book, but there should be end sheets with nothing printed on them that she could use without _completely_ ruining the thing.

It would have been a good idea.

Except for the fact that the book _would not open._

Tomoko pulled and pulled and pulled on the covers of the book, but it was like someone had carved it out of wood or sculpted it from stone and then somehow made it look and feel like a real book.

Just when she was about to give up, the covers suddenly yanked apart. The force she had been using on the book yanked it from her hands and it fell, open, to the floor.

_HELLO_

There was nothing else on the page.

Tomoko prodded cautiously at the book. The pages curved upward under slight pressure from her fingertip.

She flipped through the pages to the front of the book.

_HELLO_

_HELLO_

_HELLO_

_HELLO_

_HELLO_

She started to flip faster, picking up the pages under one thumb and letting them fall back into place quickly. Pages flashed by.

_HELLOHELLOHELLOHELLOHELLOHELLOHELLOHELLOHELLOHELLOHELLOHELLOHELLOHELL O HELL O HELL O HELL O HELL O HELL O HELL O HELL O HELL O HELL_

The very first page.

_WELCOME_

Tomoko stared at it, but it didn’t change.

_WELCOME_

She flipped to the second page.

_CONGRATULATIONS_

The next page.

_CONGRATULATIONS_

The sound of pages rustling frantically filled the room.

_CONGRATULATIONS CONGRATULATIONS CONGRATULATIONS CONGRATULATIONS CON_

_GRAT_

_U_

_LA_

_TIONS_

_HONDA TOMOKO_

She threw the book at the wall and it dropped down to the floor just as she yanked the next book open.

_HELLO AGAIN_

_HELLO AGAIN HELLO AGAIN HELLO AGAIN HELLO AGAINHELLOAGAINHELLOAGAINHELLOAGAINHELLOAGAINHELLOAGAINHELLOHELLOAGAINHELLOAGAINHELLOAGAINHELLOAGAINHELLOAGAINHELL O AGAIN O HELL AGAIN O HELL AGAIN O HELL AGAIN O HELL AGAIN O HELL O HELL O HELL AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN_

The contents of the bookshelf were strewn across the floor, open to pages at random. Tomoko spun around frantically, trying to see them all.

_HELL_

_O_

_A_

_GAIN_

_HON_

_DA_

_TO_

_MO_

_KO_

_CON_

_GRAT_

_U_

_LA_

_TIONS_

She dashed for the doorway again, sitting on in the wall past the great gilded chair, feet slipping over the books and against the floor as she tried to run.

The hinges squeaked slightly as they settled back into place behind her, and the pages fluttered back against each other. The books closed.

_HELLO AGAIN_

* * *

Feliciano stood in the falling snow, staring blankly down the carefully-edged gravel path, devoid of the white blanket that had covered the grass on either side, past the slowly-gurgling fountains and water features, all the way to the iron-bound wood door.

The massive wrought-iron gates were invitingly open, beckoning.

His rapier tapped against his leg just below his hipbone as he shifted his weight slightly.

_My son is in there somewhere._

The bars on the windows were all intact. The ivy was still trailing up one of the timber-fenced, plastered walls that made the House so deceptively innocuous-looking.

Feliciano closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and reached for his rosary before he remembered where he’d put it. He laid his hand flat over his heart instead.

_St. Michael, you are the General of God in the everlasting battle against all that is evil. Give me strength to fight the demon within this house; and should I fail in my duty to these children, deliver them from the evil of this place and guide them to our Father’s Kingdom._

The gravel crunched slightly as he walked into the mansion’s grounds. The gates swung shut silently behind him.

_Blessed Virgin, Holy Mother, on this eve of your son’s birth, protect these children of ours and give them the strength to endure the horrors of this place, so that they might escape and return safely to their homes and families._

A key lay on the gravel path a few feet away from the gates. Feliciano remembered it. He picked it up and hung it on the iron scrollwork of the gates.  

_St. Mark, I have fought under your patronage for centuries. You led me to be an empire and a great republic. Following your lion into battle, I was victorious against my enemies in Europe and across the Mediterranean. Please, help me now._

He stuck one of the larger stones edging the path between the door and it’s frame, then shoved his shoulder against it. The old wood gave a little, splintering slightly.

He slammed into the door again and again, until the side of his body ached and the wood around the doorknob was riddled with cracks.

The badly-splintered wood scraped against the old leather fencing gloves he dug out of one of his ancient attic chests as he worked to wrench the doorknob from its moorings. It came free after a few minutes of yanking, and he walked back up the path.

He stopped a meter or two away, pulled his arm back, and flung the iron lock and handle over the gate. It landed with a faint _thwump_ on the far side and rolled for a few seconds, leaving a furrow in the snow until it finally came to a stop, the stark, dull black dark against the glittering white.

Feliciano paused for a moment in front of the door to pick some small bits of wood out of his gloves, readjust his brigandine, and draw his rapier.

As his footsteps faded away up the stairs, the rock he’d left in the doorframe slid sideways back to the edge of the path; and the door shut firmly, despite lacking a latch to hold it closed.

* * *

_Feliciano couldn’t keep his eyes off the man next to him._

_It was a dream. He knew that._ He’d _said._

_The Holy Roman Empire had told North Italy that he was dreaming, but North Italy was in no hurry to wake up._

_Holy Rome noticed Feliciano glancing surreptitiously at him. He smiled and offered his hand._

_Feliciano’s eyes widened, and he grabbed it immediately._

_“H-”_

_“Germany!” Prussia called from inside the house. He was holding the door open. “You going to stand around looking dopy all day; or are you coming in?”_

_Holy Rome gently dragged Feliciano into the House. Feliciano gripped tighter in nervousness, heart in his throat as he watched Japan._

_Any second now, any second and a plate would break down the hall and Kiku would walk off and leave them all alone and they’d see the monster_ please please don’t let that happen

_Japan looked around, said the lines that Feliciano had memorized turns and turns ago, and announced that he was going to look around upstairs._

_Prussia shrugged and wandered off down the hallway towards the back of the house._

_Feliciano stood stock-still, ignoring both of them, clutching Holy Rome’s hand and waiting,_ waiting-

_Waiting…_

_The crash of breaking porcelain never came._

_“Italy…” Holy Rome said gently, and reached for his other hand. “It’s all right. I told you- everything will go as you like.”_

_Feliciano stared at his face, and for a moment the only thought there was_ ‘I see how Prussia could confuse him for Germany’ _and then reality- of a sort- hit him._

_He started to tremble._

_“Italy?” Holy Rome asked in concern, leaning forward to rest his forehead against Feliciano’s._

_Feliciano just shook his head wordlessly, tears and words choked up in his throat._

_Holy Rome’s lips pressed against his hair, and a broken sob made it through as Feliciano remembered that this was all only a dream._

_“H-H-I-I It didn’t_ happen, _” he gasped hoarsely. “I thought that I didn’t want it to happen, I_ really _didn’t want it to happen, none of it, and it_ didn’t- _”_

_Slightly-hysterical laughter forced its way into his voice._

_“He- Hey, hey, no one’s going to die! No one’s going to die!”_

_He could feel tears gathering in his eyes, and his heart was pounding and twisting and seemed just a few moments from falling down into some dark abyss._

_“I don’t want anyone to die so they won’t!_ They won’t! _”_

_Holy Rome’s smile was sad and shadowed._

_“That’s right, Italy,” he said softly, pulling him into a hug. “None of the others will die.”_

_Feliciano hugged him back, tightly, and snuggled up against him._

_Oh, this was nice. How come he couldn’t have dreamed something like this those years he waited and worried?_

_Holy Rome was quite surprisingly warm, and the added height seemed to have brought corresponding strength. Despite the novelty of the situation, with his eyes closed like this, Feliciano could swear the embrace felt familiar._

_“I missed you,” he said quietly to the other man._

_“I miss you, too,” he responded softly._

_Feliciano took a deep breath and sighed._

_“Couldn’t you have sent a letter or something?” he asked, waiting to see what this dream Empire would say._

_“There was never time. It was always fighting and marching and fighting-”_

_"And dying,” Feliciano said quietly, thinking back on his own, countless battles. “Always dying.”_

_He pulled away before Holy Rome could answer, but kept a hold of the other man’s hands. He looked around at the hallway._

_The floorboards were the same uniform, warm wood color; the walls still stark white. The hallways still looked long and bare. The sunlight from the first floor windows fell in the same way, the light broken into geometric shapes by the muntins and the bars on the outside._

_But the House was silent._

_No screaming, or crashing, or roaring, or skittering of claws across waxed wood floors._

_It was so silent, so dead-sounding, that Feliciano just_ had _to make some noise._

_He laughed shakily._

_The sound rebounded off the walls slightly._

_He laughed louder-_

_-the sound crept down the hall-_

_-and louder-_

_-scrambled up the stairs-_

_-and louder and louder and louder until he was laughing has hard and loud as he could and had to double over in tears and Holy Rome was staring wide-eyed at him in terror and the hysterical laughter had filled the house, basement to attic, and_

_Nothing_

_Happened_

_Because there was nothing and no one there to hear it and pause and turn towards the sound and come inexorably, slowly, down the stairs with jaws open wide and teeth sharp and dark with dried blood._

_"I-Italy-”_

_Feliciano tore his hands from Holy Rome’s and flung them wide._

_"Nothing! NOTHING!” he screamed through the laughter and the tears. “Look; look; all this and NOTHING!”_

_Holy Rome had his hands up like he was trying to approach a cornered animal._

_“It-”_

_Feliciano took a few steps backward, arms still out._

_“There’s nothing here! I can scream and no one will hear me, I leave a door unlocked and no one will follow me, I can run and there won’t be anyone chasing me because there is NOTHING!”_

_He choked up for a moment on the laughter he hadn’t been able to keep down, and couldn’t even keep his mouth shut because it kept cracking open too wide, showing all his teeth._

_“I- I- I can-”_

_“Italy,” Holy Rome said firmly, and took a step towards him._

“I CAN RUN AND YOU CAN’T CATCH ME!” _Feliciano screamed in his face, then whirled on his heel and_ ran.

 _He ran down hallways he knew and shoved doors open as he flew by and the handles slammed into the wall and cracked the plaster raining fragments onto the clean floor and he ran into parts of the House he’d never even known existed and made the new doors go_ bang-bang-bang _against the frames just because he could and kicked chairs over and heaved tables across the floor and left huge gashes in the wood and knocked bookshelves over and the rows fell into each other again and again and ripped the strings out of the piano and never, ever escaped the sound of his laughter._

_And nothing happened._

_He was wedged in a corner, mouth buried in the crook of his arm, shoulders shaking, when Holy Rome found him again._

_"Italy…”_

_Feliciano lifted his head. The laughter was quieter, and tired, but still unstoppable._

_“Sorry, sorry,” he wheezed, covering his eyes and forehead with one spread hand, resting the back of his head against the wall. “I’m sorry, I’ll clean it up, promise,_ really, _I’ll do it all_ right _this time and no one will have to yell-”_

_Holy Rome sighed sadly, and Feliciano moved his hand to look at him._

_“Hey, hey, don’t look so unhappy,” he told him. “There’s nothing here, we can take as long as we want and nothing will happen-”_

_He stood up, using the wall for support._

_"Nothing will happen, ever, nothing will happen because there’s nothing here to hurt us-”_

_Feliciano’s hand closed on the lever sticking out of the wall, and Holy Rome’s eyes widened suddenly._

_“Nothing,” Feliciano whispered, voice still shaky with laughter, and rammed it down._

_And then he was falling, falling very far into the dark, air rushing past and screaming in his ears; but not as loud as Holy Rome’s panicked pleas for forgiveness._

* * *

Antonio was eyeing Portugal warily- occasionally she liked to pull things on him during these sorts of large social gatherings- when, next to him, Lovino dropped his wine glass on the floor. It shattered, spilling dark red across the old stone flags.

“Lovi?” he asked in concern, setting his own glass down so he could hold his love steady. He didn’t like the way his eyes had gone wide and blank at _all._

He got his arms around the other man and held him carefully.

“Lovi?” he asked again.

Romano screamed.

It was long, and loud, and wordless, and immediately stopped all conversation as the entire room turned towards them in time to see half of Italy start to collapse forward, Spain’s grip being the only thing keeping him off the floor.

“Lovino!” Antonio exclaimed loudly, holding him tighter. “Lovino; talk to me! Talk to me, tell me what happened!”

Romano clutched at his arm, breath raspy and strained.

“Fe…Fe…”

“Take- take a couple deep breaths first everything’s going to be all right-”

 _“Feliciano!”_ he screeched, twisting and struggling in Spain’s grasp. “Let go let go let go _let go of **me-!**_ ”

Antonio clutched him closer, trapping his arms. He pushed his face against Romano’s hair and used his other arm to keep his head still.

“Feli-” Lovino rasped, still trying to pull away. He was crying now. “Feli, take it back take it back-”

He slumped in Antonio’s arms, and sobbed, quietly, hopelessly, into the silence of the room.

“Venice isn’t mine take it _back…_ ”

“Okay, woah, everybody take a deep breath,” Prussia said after a few moments. “Lutz, sit down before you fall over.”

Germany just kept standing there, frozen, staring blankly off into the distance.

“Lutz… Francis-”

Gilbert pushed his brother gently down onto the couch next to France, who put one arm around his shoulder and started murmuring comfortingly to him.

“All right,” Prussia said loudly, sticking his hands on his waist. “Who was the last one to see Feli?”

Slovenia inched uncomfortably out of Bosnia’s talk group.

“He left to take call,” he muttered. “Maybe ten minutes ago?”

“Who called him?”

“How should I know, _his_ phone. His government?”

Prussia looked around the room.

“I’m going to go look around. Nobody panic while I’m gone.”

He walked out into the hallway and shut the door.

“Is it lunchtime?” Zell asked him, putting down her book when he opened the door.

“Not yet,” he told his niece. “Hey-”

Gilbert glanced around sharply.

“-where’s everyone else?”

“They went for a walk in the woods,” Vincenzo told him, turning around on the couch. “Cass was bored.”

He frowned slightly. “I thought they’d be back by now, though.”

Prussia made a little meaningless noise to show he wasn’t ignoring him, then closed the door, an unsettling feeling of dread taking root deep in stomach.

He took a few deep breaths and decided to look around the rest of the first floor.

He found Montenegro sitting alone in the kitchen, tapping her foot nervously.

“Hey,” Prussia said, and she jumped, glancing over at him. “You seen Veneziano?”

When Senka looked away, quickly, he strode over and loomed.

“Montenegro, don’t you _dare_ shit with me right now, his brother just had a screaming breakdown in the other room.”

She handed him a paper she’d been trying to cover up.

“Raivis and the Vatican told me to wait ten minutes,” she said hurriedly, as if she hoped it would make the slow clench of Prussia’s hand around the sheet as he read it go away.

* * *

 

Nia and János were as far away from the last picture in the gallery as they could be, searching the area by the ballroom.

János was staring up at the picture of Justus Georg Faust, listening to the distant rattle of Nia attempting to open the large French doors she’d found at the end of the ballroom.

It was tempting to think it would work. You could see the large front pool just beyond the glass; and then the wall just beyond that.

It gave a wonderful view of the front gate.

By now, Nia had resorted to throwing her entire weight onto the doors, trying to force them outward. The glass panes were rattling in a disconcerting way.

“Nia,” he called. “You’re going to break it and get shards stuck all down your sides.”

“I don’t care!” she yelled back at him. “A hospital can fix that; but I don’t know if a hospital can fix whatever the hell happens in a house that _rearranges things by itself!_ ”

“Maybe you shouldn’t scream that. What if it hears you?”

Nia let go of the door handles like they’d burned and backed up quickly, glancing around for suspicious movement.

She wiped her hands on her pants nervously and walked across the colonnaded, tiled room, edging past the disturbing statue and back out into the gallery.

“Okay, okay,” she said to herself. János kept looking at the picture. “We are stuck in a creepy, sentient, and probably malevolent house. There aren’t any doors to the inside that we can find. The door to the outside won’t open and something bad might happen if we manage to open it. We can’t find any stairs.”

Nia shifted nervously.

“Stairs and doors are big. Where do you hide major architectural features-”

“-in evil sentient houses,” János added.

“-in evil sentient houses?”

He thought about it for a moment.

“A switch. Something moves on that statue, or one of the tiles depresses if you step on it, or there’s something you flip under the table. Then the wall slides open or a trapdoor in the floor or ceiling falls in or a picture-”

János stopped.

They looked at each other.

“The pictures swing open,” Nia finished for him.

She stepped closer to _Justus Georg Faust_ and examined the edge of the picture frame where it rested against the wall; then tried to slide her fingers under the bottom and lift the painting away.

It wouldn’t move.

“Attached to the wall somehow,” she said; then clamped her fingers around the right edge of the frame and pulled.

The wall moved.

“János-!”

He set his shoulder against the few centimeters of wall that now stood out from the rest, and pushed when she pulled.

The wall grated against the floor for a few seconds, then swung open easily.

Nia stepped out from behind the hidden door and blanched.

“There-”

János turned and looked.

The only reason he wouldn’t be tracking blood around the halls was because the trail had dried long ago; probably around the time of the date on the plaque under the painting.

It was old and brown and caked to the half-smoothed, natural stone floors. The air was stale inside the room

The crypt.

There was a table in the middle of the floor.

The blood trail led up to it, turning less brown and more red until it reached its final destination, where crimson drops hung in trails like petrified mineral trails in caverns from the rough, unfinished wood and dangling fingers.

Justus Georg Faust’s stomach had been ripped open, and his intestines and other, unidentifiable, organs were visible through the shredded skin and muscle.

Nia edged forward slightly, reaching for János’s arm to pull him back, and the wall slid back into place.

The crypt was cold and still. It felt like nothing had moved in a few centuries; or that they had walked in on a new murder scene, just missing the killer.

That felt more likely.

Justus Georg Faust’s eyes were open, expression slightly surprised and vaguely fearful, staring blankly up at the ceiling. One arm was draped across his caved-in chest, and the blood had run down outside of the other, towards the floor, staining the fabric. A foot pointed the wrong way, toes angled straight down at the floor. The other rested on the corner of the table, still attached the right way around.

A few centuries of it; with an undecayed body lying where it had been flung, with no regard for real order or any dignity, atop the bier in the middle of it.

The still-red blood glimmered slightly in the dim light.

“There’s a door over there,” János said, voice shaky.

There was one, in the corner, beyond the table.

Nia swallowed, and her shoulders tensed.

“Come on then.”

Their footsteps were loud on the stone. The creak of the unoiled hinges of the battered wood door opened onto a rickety, narrow staircase, sloping steeply upward.

There was light at the top.

The click of the latch closing let the dark silence seep back into the crypt.

* * *

Zheng opened the door out to the hallway and stepped through. Cato came after him, leaving the blanket on the floor.

“Which way?” she asked.

Her husband looked around. To the left, the hallway ended in a door. To the right, it extended much farther, though there was still a door down there, too.

“Right,” he decided, taking her hand.

They walked along together, and in less than a minute they found themselves in a large open space formed by a T-intersection in the hallways, and a flight of stairs to the next floor.

Cato tugged him down the connecting hallway. At the end, to their right, were the stairs to the first floor.

They rushed down the stairs, the pounding sound of their feet echoing slightly in the enclosed space.

Halfway down, the front door appeared, set back in a small foyer area off the main hall.

There was a small sigh of relief, neither of them knew from whom, and then they set foot on the first floor.

One step off the stairs, and the air was rent with a roar.

Zheng saw it coming, and shoved Cato to the side. She stumbled into the first floor hallway intersection, brushing past dull, blazingly hot skin pulled and stretched over misshapen bone and muscle as she fell towards the floor. 

She hit and scrambled away on all fours, aiming for a wall she could get her back against but she glanced behind herself before she reached it and froze, staring, years of medical school kicking in, brain working frantically towards distraction and it _had_ to be a coping technique, Cato knew, but she couldn’t stop.

_Gray humanoid biped seven to eight feet tall badly proportioned legs and arms too short and thick head too big no neck torso makes up most of body mass not accounted for by skull and associated body parts_

She could only see the back of it but there was a _crunch_ she recognized as the sound of bone being crushed from one of her classes, the professor had been giving a lecture and wanted to show them _exactly_ how ribs looked when they fractured into little splinters and punctured skin and lungs and heart

“Zheng! _Zheng!_ ”

And then she was grabbed from behind and Cassiel was streaking past one her one hand clutching her coat and she had to move or be dragged up the stairs, and she caught a glimpse of her husband pressed up against the wall by one of the thing’s disproportionate hands before the bottom floor disappeared completely behind the ceiling of the staircase.

Cassiel dragged her left down the second-floor hallway and through the door on the end, into a library, shoving it shut behind him and collapsing against it, still clutching his cousin.

Cato grabbed the lapels of his jacket and screamed into his chest.

* * *

Everyone looked up expectantly as Prussia walked back into the room, and then immediately went on guard when they saw his expression.

Gilbert glanced over at Francis for a split second.

The other man got the unspoken message and tightened his grip on Germany. Spain picked up on it and followed suit with Romano.

Prussia took a deep breath, then realized he didn’t know how to start.

“We’re missing some of our children,” he said first, deciding to start with what was probably the better news.

 _"What?”_ Poland demanded, before anyone else got the chance to speak.

“I went and checked in on them when I was looking around for Feli,” Gilbert told them, raising his voice to be heard over the growing agitated noise. “Cassiel, Nia, Heinrich, Vasco, Cato, Zheng, Miervaldis, János, Armas, Tomoko, Rémy, Giovanna, and that _guy_ she decided she’s marrying aren’t there anymore. Feli went after them.”

Lovino suddenly burst back into barely-containable panic.

“Where is my _family,_ you fucking bastard! Where are they!”

Prussia closed his mouth.

“ _Where are they!_ Tell me where they are _tell_ me-!”

Gilbert glanced over at his brother.

The look Ludwig was giving him was so desperate and just the _slightest_ touch hopeful under all that and _damn_ , he’d never been able to take bad news about people he cared about-

_Shit, shit, shit, I’m sorry, Lutz-_

“They’re _your family too_ and _your_ children are gone and and and _fuck it_ you’re my **_brother-in-law;_** _where **are-**_ ”

_"The House is back!”_

The room exploded.

* * *

Ásdís glared in the general noise of the commotion.

_“What on **Earth-** ”_

Zell had put down her book again and was looking concernedly at the door.

“It sounds like politics.”

“It _sounds_ like they’re about to murder someone,” Lorenza said irritably.

“Politics,” Zell repeated knowingly.

Ásdís stood up and stalked over to the door, yanking it open just in time to catch the end of an enraged tirade from Austria.

“ _I’m_ going to go find out.”

She opened the door to the room the Nations had taken over a few moments later.

"- _specifically ordered_ us not to go after him!” Prussia was exclaiming angrily. “Raivis and Cris _already_ ignored that!”

Romano went even redder, and Spain looked like he’d completely given up on everything.

“ _Both_ of them?” he screamed. “ _Both of them_ are in there and you’re telling me _now!_ ”

Ásdís decided to wait and see where this was going.

“I’m not leaving them in there by themselves!” Romano declared, and tried to pry Spain off him.

“ _No,_ Lovino!” Antonio snapped at him, grabbing his arm and twisting it behind him before he could get away. “I’m _not_ letting you do that!”

“They’re _my_ brothers and _our_ children!” Lovino screamed at him, and tried to crush his captor’s foot with the heel of his shoe. “It’s _my_ family and _YOU DON’T FUCKING **OWN ME!**_ ”

He managed to smash an elbow into Spain’s diaphragm to make him let go, but Romano didn’t get more than five steps before Antonio tackled him.

“I am _not_ letting you die! Do you hear me, Lovino; I am _not_ going to let you die!”

_“I NEVER DIED!”_

And suddenly there was clawing and snarling and kicking, and Ásdís knew that they weren’t the best couple by any means but she _did_ know that they were one of the longest, happiestly-married people she’d ever seen and they should _not_ be fighting like this; so she did the only thing she could think of and turned and grabbed the door handle with both hands and slammed it shut as hard as she could.

The sudden noise startled everyone. On the floor, Spain and Romano froze, Lovino’s hands buried in his husband’s shirt, one of Antonio’s hands holding his head against the floor.

_“What is going on.”_

The room was silent as Europe stared at her.

“Just some politics, _kæreste_ ,” Denmark told her, too casually. “Don’t worry about it.”

Ásdís glared at him.

“You’re _lying_ to me again, _Onkel_ Mathias.”

“I assure you,” Austria said. “We have it well in hand.”

“Have _what_ well in hand?”

“The po-”

“ _Onkel_ Mathias _I know it’s not politics!_ They’re fighting and yelling about _dying_ and we could hear you all shouting at each other in the other room!”

“Our conflicts are nothing that you need to concern yourself with.”

Ásdís turned to face Austria.

 _"Bull. Shit,”_ she told him. “ _I’m_ no government flunky- that doesn’t work with me!”

Norway gripped her arm and started to pull her towards the door.

“Let go!” she exclaimed angrily, and tried to pull away.

“Ásdís,” Iceland said. “Go with your uncle.”

Norway pulled her along out the door and back down the hallway, then shoved her into the other room ahead of him. Ásdís stumbled and caught herself on the edge of the couch.

She started to snarl something at him in his own language, but he talked straight over her, expression blank and cold.

“In those woods is a house possessed by a demon. The others are in there. Veneziano went after them; the Vatican and Latvia after him. They are likely dead or dying as we speak. There is a low probability that we will see any of them again. We’re dealing with it; stay in here.”

He closed the door and Ásdís grabbed the handle as soon as it shut.

The lock rattled, and wouldn’t move.

She kicked it in anger and frustration and just maybe fear and confusion, cursing the way it had been magicked shut.

* * *

Tai was half out the window when he heard a cellphone ringtone, just outside his door.

He froze, breath catching.

“France?” he heard his grandfather ask. The sound was faint, muffled by the wall, but Tai didn’t dare take the chance that China wouldn’t hear him drop the few inches onto the fire escape.

“What? Francis, I-”

_Please don’t come in please don’t come in-_

“N- What have you been _doing_ over there! I came to you so he- You were supposed to _protect-!_ ”

Tai moved slowly, trying to get back into the room without making too much noise. He got one knee back onto the windowsill, but his foot caught on the outside of the window when he tried to pull it through. It made a low _thwump_ noise.

Tai heaved himself the rest of the way through the window, planning his story for the noise as he pitched head-first towards the floor.

_I fell over, the thump was me trying to catch myself I’ll be on the floor anyway when he opens the door-_

The door opened.

“Tai,” his grandfather said, voice odd. “I- I have something I have to go take care of for a little while. Are you going to be all right by yourself?”

Tai poked his head over the top of the bed.

_Dropped something just looking for it-_

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

China closed the door, and Tai pulled out his phone while he waited a few minutes, wanting to be sure his grandfather had left the house.

_‘Hey, Eun, going to be a little late to the café. Grandfather came in unexpectedly.’_

China heard the fire escape rattle slightly just as he took his sword out of the chest he’d  hidden it in, after the Revolution, but thought nothing of it.

* * *

_Russia could feel China’s eyes boring into his back as they walked down the stairs._

_He was tired- so, so tired of this. He wanted to go home._

_But they were going to the annex instead, and Ivan climbed down the ladder to the dimly-lit set of small rooms, wishing that he could be anywhere else._

_Someplace where no one had anything to hide- where_ he _didn’t have anything to hide, because everyone already knew about everything._

_China came down the ladder after him, set foot on the floor, and turned to him, arms crossed in front of his chest._

_“I want answers, Ivan.”_

_Russia put on his best smile._

_“Answers to what, comrade?”_

_“I do not appreciate being spoken to in such a manner!”_

_“But-”_

_“No buts!” his neighbor snapped. “There are things you are not telling us- I’ve_ heard _you talking to someone! Who is it?”_

_Ivan thought of the voice he’d never been able to put a face to. He didn’t see why America was always boasting about being the hero._

_Being the hero just made Russia feel sick._

_He turned his back on China and pretended to be examining the room._

_The infrequent contact with the Voice had never made him feel much better; even if it was supposed to be helping. There was no way to tell if the Voice was really right, if it was who it said it was, if the manipulation Ivan was trying to force through on the others would really result in their freedom._

_If the Voice was really the one behind all this. If the Voice could really be appeased by the charade Russia didn’t seem to be able to pull off._

_“If nothing else, Ivan, we have learned in the past few hours that we_ cannot _keep secrets in this place!” Yao snapped at him. “Remember Italy? Remember how Spain had to let us out?”_

_Ivan sighed, and kept staring at the shelves._

_Had he gained anything from the Voice’s directions?_

_Was anyone benefiting?_

_Right now, the answer to both of those questions seemed to be an unequivocal no._

_“Keeping secrets gets us all_ killed, _Ivan. We need to know_ everything _if we are going to escape this time!”_

_Had the Voice ever specifically said to keep everything a secret?_

_“Do you_ want _to die again?”_

_Russia took a deep breath, and looked over at China._

_“I do not know exactly who it is I have been talking to,” he told his neighbor. “The Voice says that, if I do what it says, if I can make other people do what it says, we will all be free.”_

_China just seemed annoyed._

_“And why would you trust this voice of yours?” he demanded. “There is no reason to trust a person you don’t know the identity of!”_

_“The Voice says that it is the one behind all this,” Ivan said, making a sweeping gesture to indicate the whole house. “This house, and the demon, and our deaths. I saw no reason not to at least consider what it said.”_

_“It told you to_ manipulate _it us!”_

 _“If it keeps us safe, if it keeps us_ alive, _I will do whatever I must. The identity of whoever can give me the means to do that is immaterial.”_

_Yao made an exasperated huff._

_“Do you at least have_ some _idea of who this is, so that we can crush them when we get out?”_

_Ivan shrugged._

_“It said its name was Me-”_

_There was sudden darkness; and silence; and when the light came back on_

* * *

Vasco took a deep breath, grabbed a bar on the cell door with one hand, and let the light go out.

_sktch sktch sktch sktch sktch sktch sktch sktch_

The sound was drowned out by the heartbeat pounding in his ears and his fingers clawed in the dark at the cell door as he tried to get his hands in under the thick lock panel so he could _pull-_

He found the panel, and grabbed it.

The door made a raucous, metallic _screech_ as it dragged against the stone of the tunnel floor. Sparks lit the trail, providing nothing more but visual proof of the progress Vasco was making.

The resistance melted away suddenly, and door crashed against the stone wall. The sound reverberated down the corridors and around the rooms, joined by the

_sktch sktch sktch sktch sktch sktch sktch sktch sktch_

Vasco pulled the lighter out again and spun around, weak light haloing around his hand.

Hot, moving air, on the back of his neck.

Vasco turned.

* * *

“There are some _weird_ things in here,” Rémy said.

Miervaldis snorted softly.

“You’re telling _me._ ”

The extra door in the third-floor library opened into what seemed to be some kind of workshop. It had two large wooden tables, set at right angles to each other, placed on the floor in front of an outline of a circle stained onto the floorboards.

Rémy walked over and stared at it, trying to read the vestiges of chalked words; giving up after a few minutes and going to one of the freestanding bookcases on the other side of the circle.

He pulled a few of the large, old books out and flipped through them.

“This looks like the sort of thing Cass would spend hours taking notes on,” he remarked. “He loves this old _‘magic’_ stuff for some reason.”

“Really?” Miervaldis asked.

He’d stopped at the writing desk shoved against the wall nearest the door. He moved a few sheets of parchment aside, glancing at the vaguely-familiar pictures and symbols scratched on them in ink.

“Yeah. I always thought it was a little strange- I mean, he grew up with _the_ _Vatican_ and _Israel_ for most of his life. I think it might be a rebellion thing, but he also just likes really strange things. I don’t understand him.”

Miervaldis stared at the black mirror he’d uncovered. The surface shone a bit in the omnipresent light, but beyond that…

“I think Israel blames Prussia for him. I can see how she’d think that, but they’re really not all _that_ similar.”

Under the sheen was a darkness so complete that it was like looking into the heart of a cave; or suddenly walking into a room with the curtains drawn after countless hours in the sunlight.

It called to him.

“I spent enough time running away from home when I was younger to meet them a lot- Paris to Berlin on a motorcycle or hitchhiking is nothing once you get used to it. Cass’s always been a lot more into finding out everything about everything than his father has. _Nia_ has a lot more in common with Prussia than he does- both of them like fighting a bit _too_ much.”

Rémy put the book he was looking at back on the shelf and turned around.

“…Meirvaldis?”

The question echoed slightly in the empty room.

* * *

The snow crust, only starting to form, crunched slightly under Yao’s feet.

He was starting to wish that he’d brought a coat, or even just gloves. The hilt of his sword was warm where he’d been holding it, but every time he shifted his grip his palm was met with icy metal.

The back wall of the mansion’s grounds started to loom up at him through the trees.

China stepped out into the clearing surrounding the entire complex- significantly smaller in area here in the back than around in the front- and examined the scene.

_“Romania?”_

The other Nation turned and looked him over.

“Yeah?”

“You… have a grappling hook.”

Cezar turned back towards the wall.

“Yeah.”

Really, that was the least of what Yao could have commented on.

Romania had an old manual rifle strapped to his back and a sword hanging from his side. There was a large leather bag slung across one shoulder. When he’d turned, China had seen a bandolier hung with what were probably ammunition pouches, but likely contained some other things as well. He had at least two visible knives, a small axe, and what looked to be a modified handgun. And a crossbow.

The grappling hook _definitely_ took second string to the sheer amount of weaponry the Nation had on his person.

Cezar took a few large steps backward and started twirling the line the hook was attached to.

“Are you coming over the wall or are you going to go around the front and stand around waiting for something to happen?”

“I _did_ bring a sword.”

The hook clanked against the far side of the wall. Romania yanked on the line.

“Right.”

Yao came closer.

“Are you _sure_ you aren’t heavy enough for that?”

Cezar looked at him like he was crazy.

“Even metal-plated Kevlar isn’t _that_ heavy,” he scoffed.

Oh. It appeared he _was_ wearing armor under all that.

Romania went up the line first and straddled the wall, waiting for China to follow. After Yao had managed to seat himself securely atop the structure, he pulled the hook out and jammed it into the outside of the wall, throwing the line down onto the grounds.

He pulled off his rifle and checked the barrel chamber.

“I’ll cover you.”

Yao swung down onto the line and lowered himself onto the grass below. Cezar followed suit a moment later, slipping the rifle strap on again and taking out his handgun.

“Back door,” he said, jerking his head at the patio Yao never remembered seeing before.

“Is this a _normal_ thing for you?” China demanded, following his lead.

“I may be a Nation,” Romania told him, eyes sweeping the area. “But I have a higher calling.”

“Oh really?”

They reached the doors.

“Monster extermination.”

* * *

The first thing Feliciano noticed upon emerging into the front hallway of the house was the dent in the wall. The paint had cracked as the thin board behind it broke into spider web fractures, leaving a faint white dusting on the wood floor.

The second thing was Zheng, collapsed, face down, half on the stairs.

Feliciano didn’t check to see if the man was alive as he knelt down next to him- he had heard the raspy, sucking sound of his breathing even from the doorway.

Veneziano sheathed his sword and Zheng twitched, reacting to the unfamiliar noise.

He placed one hand gently on the human’s back.

“Zheng? It’s Veneziano. I’m going to turn you over and it’s going to really hurt and I’m sorry but I have to, okay?”

He didn’t wait for any sort of answer before slipping one arm under the man and flipping him over.

The sound Zheng made was probably a scream, but it derailed so quickly into a thick, sickening gurgle that it was hard to tell.

There was some blood on the front of his shirt, and quite a bit on his mouth. Vacant, glazed eyes stared up at him.

Feliciano slipped a hand to Zheng’s neck and silently despaired at the way his skin was too cool, tingeing blue; and his heartbeat, like his breathing, too fast. He pulled the hand away and very carefully felt around his chest.

“You’re going into shock,” he told Zheng, doing his best to sound soothing and calm. “I know it really, _really_ hurts to breathe right now, but I need to you to keep doing it. Slow, deep breaths, okay? Count them in your head- you aren’t getting enough air and it’ll keep you awake. _I need to you to stay awake._ ”

Zheng tried to say something, but the words caught and he made a strangled noise instead. He coughed, wheezing wetly, trying to clear the blood lining his throat.

“I’m going to pick you up. I promise it won’t be long and then I’ll put you down again, somewhere where it won’t hurt so much, but remember that however much it hurts _you have to stay awake._ ”

Veneziano picked him up and ascended the stairs.

He stopped in front of the door to the room that hid the place he’d told his son to go and rearranged Zheng. The man made a few rasping noises, but otherwise stayed silent.

Feliciano kicked the door shut behind himself, then had to stop again in front of the large metal door in the corner. There were a few, long moments of awkward shuffling as he tried to grab the handle and pull the door open with Zheng in his arms; but he managed, and the door swung shut by itself.

He climbed the short flight of stairs to the next door, and kicked it.

 _"Heinrich?”_ he called.

His son shoved it open immediately, and Veneziano pushed past him.

“Close it. _Now._ ”

Heinrich did so, staring at Zheng.

“ _Babbo_ -”

“Take the pillows off one of those beds and pull the sheets down.”

A minute later, Feliciano was placing Zheng down onto the mattress.

“What _happened_ to him?”

“The demon,” his father told him, checking Zheng over once more. He was clearly trying to breathe deeper, but the agony of broken ribs was making it an ordeal he simply couldn’t accomplish.

_“Demo-”_

Heinrich was cut off by Feliciano turning around and hugging him tightly. His son did the same in return, hesitantly.

“Thank you,” his father whispered- Heinrich wasn’t sure to whom. “Thank you thank you thank you.”

“ _Babbo_ , I-” he started to say, then stopped, confused and unsure. “You don’t feel… like _Italy._ ”

“Everyone is human here, Heinrich,” Veneziano said quietly. He took a deep breath, and kissed his hair. “Are you all right?”

His son’s eyes wandered to Zheng, shocked and scared.

“There’s _really_ a demon?”

“Yes.”

Feliciano felt him shudder; and clutch at him tighter.

“I’m going to do my best to protect you,” he promised. “You and everyone else. Have you seen-”

“Just- just you, and...”

The silence left in the wake of his trailed off sentence was filled by raspy coughs from the bed.

_“Cato-”_

Veneziano let go of his son and spun.

“You-”

“We tried… to go out the front,” Zheng wheezed, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. They couldn’t tell if it was from the pain, or something else. “We got off the sta… it wasn’t there before.”

Feliciano sat down carefully on the bed next to him.

“It does that,” he said quietly. “Try not to say too much-”

 _"Grabbed me,”_ Zheng forced out. It sounded like a whimper. “I-I-”

Hacking coughs.

He closed his eyes, expression twisted in pain.

“Didn’t see… _Cato_ …”

“I didn’t see any sign of her, Zheng. She ran away somewhere.”

“N- _No_ … it got _C-C-C-_ ”

“No,” Feliciano said, weight settling in his stomach. “It kills you where it finds you, Zheng. She got away.”

He placed one hand on the man’s forehead.

“You’ll see her again,” he told Zheng quietly, thinking of how many times he’d promised relief and salvation to others like this.

Veneziano stood.

“Heinrich?” he asked, reaching a hand out. His son took it.

“I need you to sit with him. Make sure he stays awake and breathing.”

“But _Babbo_ -”

“The demon is attacking people who try to leave, Heinrich. I need to go find everyone before they try to do what Zheng and Cato did. I need to find your sister.”

Heinrich looked at floor.

“I don’t want you to go.”

Feliciano used his other hand to rest Heinrich’s head on his shoulder and kissed his hair again.

“I know. I love you, Cino.”

He drew his sword once more and left.

* * *

_“Japan!” Germany demanded desperately. “Japan, what is it?”_

_Kiku couldn’t reply to his friend. He knelt, frozen, by the edge of the bed they had placed Veneziano in, staring._

_No._

_No. This could not be happening._

_But Kiku had long since given up distrusting his eyes; so he tore them away from the bed and looked at the man- the_ young _man, so young, oh how the war had proved that- who had fallen on his knees next to him._

_“Ger-”_

_The words caught._

_“…Hey?” America said, uneasily._

_Kiku closed his eyes._

_“Ludwig,” he murmured. “Look at Feliciano’s hands.”_

_Somewhere, someone gasped slightly at the sudden informality._

_Kiku kept his eyes closed, and listened._

_The sheets rustled as Ludwig took Feliciano’s still hand, examining it as ordered. There was silence._

_A slight, shuddering inhalation._

_Japan opened his eyes._

_Ludwig’s eyes were locked onto the hand he held- too pale on the back; starting to discolor on one side and in the fingers._

_Kiku held his hands together in his lap and looked down so he didn’t have to see the way his friend was tensed, or how the staunch denial was slowly shattering into heartbreak._

“Japan-”

_“You know how dead bodies look as well as I do, Ludwig.”_

_“He’s_ not- _”_

_“His blood has started to drain. Feliciano has to have been dead nearly half an hour now.”_

_There was no reply to that, only the creak of floorboards; and when Kiku looked up he saw that Ludwig had stood, leaning over the body on the bed. He was trembling, ever so slightly._

_“It- Feliciano._ Feliciano. _”_

_“Lutz,” Prussia said, voice gentle and sad and kind. “Let him go.”_

_Germany’s head whipped around, and he glared at his older brother._

_“He_ is **not-** _”_

 _Ludwig’s jaw clenched shut suddenly, face frozen in anger and pain. Kiku saw_ something _going on behind his eyes- memory, perhaps?_

_He looked back down at Feliciano’s still form, and a sort of trembling, almost-sob escaped him. He pushed away from the bed, tears threatening to spill over, and strode off to the end of the sleeping area, where he disappeared from view between the far side of the last bed and wall, sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, head down._

* * *

Blindly, Tomoko dashed up the stairs just outside the room she’d frantically exited. They were steep, and rickety, but they were leading her away from the books that knew her name and rewrote themselves and up towards-

Towards-

It took her a few moments to process what she was seeing.

There was a gaping, pitch dark hole in the wall opposite, surrounded by dark smears and handprints.

She gravitated toward the hole, eyes drawn in.

 _Just look,_ she told herself, thoughts muzzy and weak. _Just put one hand on the wall and stick your head through._

She placed her hand on the warm, wet wall.

Tomoko blinked, vision taken up with the stark darkness centimeters from her face, and recoiled sharply, trembling, trying to remember what she had been thinking.

She raised her hands to cover face and _calm down;_ then froze, feeling the dampness on one.

She jerked her hands back and stared at the crimson coating her left.

She flexed her fingers and suddenly the smell hit her, thick and oppressive.

She stared, unseeing, at her trembling, bloody hand, and half-fell to the floor, retching.

Tomoko was well and truly shaking as she tried to wipe her hand clean on the floor. It just smeared the color across the wood floor, staining it. The dark gash sat there, accusing, and she started to scramble backward across the floor, determined to get away from this bloodstained room.

Behind her, the stairs groaned under a sudden, large weight.

* * *

Raivis set foot on the top stair and stopped.

Cristoforo halted a few stairs behind him.

“Latvia?”

The tip of the arming sword in Latvia’s hand rose slightly.

“Heard something.”

One of Cristoforo’s hands strayed to the hilt of his own blade, the gladius he’d taken from amongst Rome’s possessions.

“Where?”

Raivis took a few careful steps into the hallway and looked around.

“Back there,” he said after a few moments, indicating the hallway leading back towards the front of the house.

Together, they investigated.

The second floor appeared empty- but soon enough, there was another scream.

Latvia froze.

_“Miervaldis!”_

He charged up the staircase to the third floor to find his son collapsed against the wall, Rémy kneeling in front of him.

Miervaldis had tears dripping between his fingers; and sounded as if he were giggling hysterically behind his hands.

Raivis nearly dropped to the ground next to him, but old battle instincts kept his knees locked. He stood there, wavering between inspecting the area and attending to his son.

Rémy was staring at him.

“You’re wearing _plate armor._ ”

“Only a little bit,” Latvia replied, and dropped to the ground, abandoning his sword in favor of prying Miervaldis’s hands away from his face.

“Mier-”

He lunged forward and grabbed his father’s collar where it stuck up from under his breastplate, forcing him down to the ground. They were face-to-face, and Latvia waited, heart in his throat, but Miervaldis didn’t _say_ anything- only pointed to the door in mute terror.

 _“What happened to my son,”_ he demanded, glaring at Rémy for an answer.

Rémy was looking badly shaken.

“We- We were just- We were in the ruins, and then the house was suddenly there, and- and were in the library-”

He gestured at a door behind him, a few meters down at the end of the hallway.

“And we were still trying to figure out what was going on and th-then there- there was this _thing-_ ”

Cristoforo placed one steadying hand on his back, between his shoulder blades.

“And then?”

“W-we saw _it_ but it didn’t see _us_ and it went out one of the doors into a hallway so went out a different door and there was this workshop place and I was looking at the books and talking to Miervaldis but then I turned around and he wasn’t _there,_ so I went back into the library because I thought maybe he was there but he wasn’t and the door to the hallway was open and he was out here on the floor-”

Rémy took a deep breath.

“I think he went in there,” he said, tilting his head at the door. “But I’m _not_ going to look.”

“This workshop is off the library?”

He nodded.

“I think I left the door open; you should see it-”

“Raivis, you should get off the floor,” the Vatican told Latvia. “See if your son will stand. I am going to go look at this workshop, and then we will keep searching for my brother.”

He turned and walked into the library, then the workshop, and stopped short as soon as he entered the room.

Oh, he _knew_ what this room was for.

Cristoforo strode over to the largest table and toppled it. Alchemical glassware shattered into thousands of fragments and noxious liquids sprayed across the floor, muddying the chalk residue left over from the magic circle.

The bookshelves followed next. The wooden frames splintered and soaked up the chemicals as they crashed to the floor, grinding the glass into dust.

The cabinets were flung open and the room was filled with the sound of shattering glass as nearly every bottle and jar was added to the growing jumble of wreckage. The remainder of the cabinets’ contents went into Cristoforo’s bag.

He went over to the writing desk and grabbed a fistful of papers, throwing them towards the pile haphazardly. Fluttering sheets filled the air as he coughed in the fume-filled air. The heavy stone inkwell was pushed off, and the quills, and the drawers, large and small, were yanked from their moorings.

The black mirror glinted.

Cristoforo picked it up. He titled it back and forth, watching the play of light across the surface.

It exploded against the wall.

“Cristoforo!” Raivis called. “What are you _doing?_ ”

“A moment!”

He exited the room back into the library and half-closed the door, then pulled out a small cardboard box.

The Vatican lit a match, tossed it into the workshop, then slammed the door shut and sprinted for the hallway.

“Cris-”

He closed the library door.

There was a deep, muffled _fwump_ , and the whole house shook.

They stared at him.

“I discovered _witchcraft,_ ” Cristoforo told the others.

“Well,” Raivis said after a moment. “All right, but I’d rather not have to worry about fire on top of everything else.”

The Vatican drew his sword.

“Oh, I quite doubt we’ll have to worry much about fire.”

* * *

The room shook and it distracted the _thing_ for just long enough that Tomoko could scramble away, heedless of the pain from her slashed arm, and half-fall down the narrow staircase while the monster that had attacked her still stood, stock-still, in the room above.

She made it all the way to the next staircase down before she heard it move behind her again.

* * *

Nia picked herself up off the ground.

_“What-?”_

“No idea,” János answered.

“That _better_ not be normal,” Nia said. “You don’t think the house did-”

She stopped herself.

They had emerged from the dark, narrow staircase into a large open room over the long gallery, completely devoid of furniture. A few moments had been spent on the balcony overlooking the ballroom, and then they’d found the door to the rest of the house.

Right now, they were in a bedroom.

“I think it was on the next floor,” János said. “If it was, it wasn’t for us.”

Nia looked around apprehensively.

“Let’s just go. There aren’t any doors in here.”

They exited out into the hallway.

“Left?” she asked, gesturing to the door they’d opened to get into the hallway in the first place. “Or right?”

János looked down the hallway. There was a window at the end of it.

“Right.”

Halfway down the hallway, somewhat to his disappointment, they found a door.

Nia grabbed the handle and pulled, but it didn’t move.

“Locked?” he asked, secretly a little hopeful.

“No,” she grunted. “Just stuck-”

She took a step back to giver herself more leverage and pulled harder, stumbling backwards as the door jumped free.

János steadied her, then looked at the doorway in confusion.

“Er-”

Nia crouched down.

“ _Really?_ The back of a fireplace?”

She sighed and got on her knees.

“Come on, János.”

He followed her through and emerged into a sort of sitting area, surrounded on both sides by bookshelves- some sort of home library.

Nia was tracking soot all over the nice carpet the table and chairs stood on.

“There are a _lot_ of doors over here-”

“Nia?”

She stopped.

“Ca-”

Cassiel dashed from behind a bookshelf to tackle his cousin, pulling a distraught-looking Cato along with him.

“Oh thank _God_ you’re all right-”

_“What the hell happened-”_

“-we were downstairs and-”

“-I think the house is _alive-_ ”

“-there’s some sort of _monster_ it-”

“- _murdered_ people-”

The two of them stopped talking abruptly and thought about what the other had just said.

János reached out and touched Cato hesitantly on the arm.

“Hey-”

She was trembling slightly, hands clenched together.

“…Cato?”

“It got Zheng,” she whispered. “W-We tried to go out the front door an-”

Cato stopped talking abruptly and bit the inside of her cheek, and János stepped forward to hold her.

 _‘Murdered people?’_ Cass mouthed at Nia.

She glanced at Cato and shook her head.

He grabbed her arm and dragged her a little ways away, into the bookshelves he’d emerged from.

“I didn’t see any murdered people when I was down there-”

“There’s a portrait gallery,” she said. “The pictures swing open and the people in the paintings are dead behind them.”

He pulled a face.

“That’s… _pleasant._ ”

“But the earliest one is from _centuries_ ago and the body hadn’t decayed _at all!_ A-And there are these little nameplates under the pictures that say who was in here at the same time and _we watched ours spontaneous form and move around on the wall._ We’re stuck in a _living, **cursed** house,_ Cass!”

 “I think a _living_ house might be a bit of stretch, maybe-”

“ _Babbo_ has a picture,” Nia interrupted him. “It looked like it’d been clawed to pieces but he’s _in that gallery_ and the nameplates have pretty much everyone from World War Two-”

“But that’s good!” he reasoned. “ _They’re_ still alive, so-”

“Cass- we’re stuckin a _cursed house_ that thought it could _kill **Nations!**_ There is _nothing_ good about that an-and _fuck_ it all, _we’re just **human-**_ ”

“That doesn’t mean we’re _useless._ ”

“I know; _I know!_ But how the _hell_ are we supposed to fight something that could kill our _parents?_ ”

Cass looked a bit smug, but also a little nervous.

“Well, Nia- actually, I’m not _entirely_ sure that we _are-_ ”

The door opened.

* * *

They took the corner too sharply and Gianna slipped at the top of the stairs and stumbled downward, half falling. Santiano, still dragging Tomoko along, grabbed her as he dashed by and pulled her down the rest of the way, only to shove her away at the bottom, losing his own balance and tumbling to the floor, narrowly avoiding the sharp edge of a drawn sword. Tomoko fell against the wall and bit the inside of her cheek against the pain.

He looked up from the floor at a familiar, upside down face.

_“Your Eminence?”_

“Get up,” the Vatican ordered, eyes focused on the stairs. “All of you; get up and _go._ ”

Santiano scrambled to his feet and grabbed Gianna’s hand, peripherally registering a blonde man with a sword and two of his fiancée’s ‘cousins’.

There was a rumbling growl from the top of the stairs. One of the cousins glanced upwards towards it, eyes wide, and flinched.

The other man with the sword stepped between him and the monster.

“Did you _plan_ this?” he demanded angrily, raising his sword in preparation.

 _“Now,”_ the Vatican commanded. “Downstairs.”

Gianna pushed him towards her cousins.

“Help Rémy; I’ll get Tomoko,” she told him shakily, and he realized one of them didn’t seem to be entirely… there.

“We’re going to have to pull him along,” Rémy told him.

“ _Patre_ -”

“ _Demon,_ Gianna- **_GO!_** ”

Santiano grabbed Miervaldis and looked back for his fiancée-

The demon rushed down the stairs straight towards them.

The Vatican shoved Gianna away, towards the hallway that would take them to the next flight of stairs. Rémy started an awkward, erratic run, hampered by the man he was trying to support; and the last thing Santiano saw on the third floor landing was Latvia slicing a long, deep gash across the demon’s shoulders.

* * *

“Holy shit,” Prussia said, whipping his head around towards the house. “What the _hell_ was that?”

Everyone else looked around uncertainly.

“A bomb,” Switzerland finally said.

Hungary rounded on him.

“They wouldn’t bring a _bomb! Our children_ are in there!”

“ _Something_ exploded,” he said.

Her hands clenched.

“But _my son_ -”

“Erzsébet, please,” Roderich pleaded quietly, reaching for her. “No arguing. Not now.”

She glared at him, but there was hopelessness behind it. She let Austria take her into his arms, but didn’t return the hug.

“Um- excuse me?” Lichtenstein asked hesitantly. “Part of the house is on fire. You can see the flames coming out the window.”

“What the fuck are they _doing_ in there?” Romano snarled. His fast, angry pacing had worn a rut in the still-falling snow. Antonio trailed behind him, keeping an eye on the shotgun Lovino had clenched in his hand.

“Hell if I know,” Gilbert said.

Lovino stopped pacing abruptly, kicking up a small snow flurry as he halted.

“Don’t sound so fucking _apathetic_ about it, y- _you-_ ”

He didn’t seem able to find an insult harsh enough.

“I trust Cris and Feli and Raivis to get everyone out safe,” Gilbert said, staring at the faint, distant tongues of flame. “Do you?”

“Of _course_ I trust my own damn brothers!” Lovino snapped, then started pacing again.

“And _Latvia?_ ” France asked, sounding unconvinced.

“Hey, don’t diss him- we crusaded together, I _know_ what he can do.”

“Hm,” Sweden said.

“See? _He_ agrees with me.”

“I don’t think that was an _‘I agree with you’_ ‘ _hm’_ ,” Denmark said. “It was more like a ‘ _Shut up or I’ll punch your face in’_ ‘ _hm’_ -”

Sweden shoved him into the snow.

“Oh come on,” he muttered. “I’m here for your emotional well-being.”

“I don’t like this,” Finland said worriedly. “Berwald, what if Armas is near that?”

“He’s okay,” Sweden assured him, then sat down in the snow, holding his arms out to Timo. “C’mon.”

Finland sighed worriedly and sat down in his lap, snuggling close and trying to keep his rifle from poking the other Nation anywhere. Berwald rested his chin on the top of Timo’s head and stared through the gate at the house. Denmark plopped down next to them.

“I hate just _waiting_ like this,” Montenegro said.

“It’s all you can do sometimes,” Estonia said glumly, and pulled his scarf down a little so that maybe his breath wouldn’t keep fogging up his glasses.

Francis sighed morosely and leaned against Germany, who hadn’t moved since he’d taken up station sitting in the snow just outside the swing range of the gates.

“ _Allemange_ ,” he murmured. “Speak to me.”

It was hard to tell whether he was ignoring everyone, or so lost in his thoughts that nothing registered.

“Ludwig,” Francis said, placing a hand on top of his. “You can’t be stern and stoic forever. I know you are worrying, _mon ami_ , and it does no good to keep it all inside.”

“And what would _you_ know about my mental state?”

Francis smiled, more relieved that he had decided to talk than anything.

“We have been working together for how long, now? Nearly a century? And I have known you for longer. We have fought and argued and cooperated and gotten drunk together. I _know_ you, Ludwig.”

He patted Germany comfortingly.

“You are worrying about darling Feliciano and your children; just as I am worrying about Rémy. It’s not hard to figure out- even if I _didn’t_ know you well, it would be simple. It’s easy for me to see when someone is suffering from love.”

Ludwig glanced over at him.

“What’s it like? In there?”

France froze for a moment, then forced himself to relax a little.

“You still don’t remember anything?”

“No. Just- Feliciano and Lovino, fighting that demon, and explaining everything, and getting us out.”

Gilbert reached down and ruffled his brother’s hair.

“Not that interesting, Lutz. Mostly it’s just _dead_ tiring- trying to stay alert and focused all the time. Like the way your nerves were always shot to shit in the trenches, waiting for the next explosion.”

Ludwig looked up at him, vaguely hopeful, and Francis gave Gilbert a small, thankful smile for taking over the explanation.

“But you still have to fight it, don’t you?”

“If you run fast enough you’ll be fine. Nobody ever said you _have_ to fight it; that’s probably just a Nation thing.”

When Germany didn’t look convinced, he continued.

“C’mon, Lutz, you _know_ what happens when you get us all in one room- our first response pretty much _anything_ we don’t like is to hit it until it stops moving.”

“How _flattering,_ ” Francis muttered. “I’m glad you have such a high opinion of yourself.”

Gilbert scoffed at him and Ludwig smiled a little, and the relative quiet of the winter forest was destroyed by an earsplitting shriek of terror.

Everyone froze and looked frantically towards the house- except Romano, who went tearing towards the trees.

_“VASCO!”_

* * *

_"Last one,” Romano said, stepping away from the box._

_“Are you sure?” Spain asked uncertainly._

_“Of_ course _I’m sure!” he retorted. “_ I’ve _been the one planting them!”_

_He turned, annoyed by the apparent lack of faith Spain had in him, just to see Antonio holding another lump of magic._

_“You’re_ sure _we’ve put ones everywhere England finds some?”_

_“Yeah,” Lovino answered shortly, glaring at the shimmering, off-white blob Spain was holding._

_Antonio turned it over in his hands, staring at it._

_“Do you think there’s a lot of this?” he asked. “Magic?”_

_“I don’t know and I don’t damn well care._ I don’t want to know. _”_

_Antonio looked at him curiously._

_“But why not? It’s_ magic. _”_

 _“Yeah, and_ magic _got us_ into _this fucking mess! All this time travel and humanity and shit! Magic is the reason_ my brother _has been watching everyone_ die! _”_

_Spain still didn’t look very convinced._

_“Let’s just take that one back,” Romano said, snatching the magic from him. “Give it to England and see if he can do something_ useful _with it.”_

_Antonio shrugged, unconcerned, and took his hand, pulling them around to face the softly-glowing magic circle on the floor._

_“Ready?”  he asked. “One, two, three-”_

_They stepped over the circle. There was a now-familiar wrenching feeling, as though they were being pulled forwards, and then the circle evaporated, leaving them still standing in the basement, outside the large cell._

_“We make it?” Romano asked, clutching his stomach._

_Spain glanced around._

_“Well… the box is gone. I guess we’ll just have to go check!”_

_He started for the door._

_“Hey!” Lovino said, taking a few shaky steps. He was still suffering from the time travel, and that bastard was just_ walking off? _“Hey, wait u-”_

_Antonio glanced toward him and smiled, opening the door._

_A nightmare burst through, and Lovino stood, frozen, as Spain’s smile faltered a little at the edges, the warmth draining from his eyes as they went blank._

_There was a slight_ thump _as he hit the floor._

_Romano watched him fall, then raised his eyes to stare at the monster blocking the doorway; waiting._

_A few silent, breathless moments- and then it faded away into nothingness._

_Romano blinked rapidly, trying to process the now clear doorway, and stumbled forward._

_He fell to his knees in the blood and turned Spain’s head._

_“Antonio,” he whispered, burying his fingers in the man’s hair. “Tonio- Toño; Tonino-”_

_Gently, Lovino closed the blank eyes and laid his head down on the shredded, mangled mess of a torso, feeling the blood mat in his hair and stick to his face, the cloth of his jacket and pants growing heavy from the dark red soaking into them._

_“Damn you.”_

* * *

There was light.

Vasco tore down the tunnel, tripping and stumbling on the uneven floor, but always forcing himself to move forward.

The scratching of claws on stone had turned into the dull pounding of something large steadily approaching, closer and closer and

The tunnel ended and threw out his hands to stop himself from running into the wall of the hole he’d fallen down, scraping skin off his palms.

The air was bright and cold, with a slight breeze, but his heavy breathing didn’t cover up the heavy footsteps behind him and he knew, he _knew_ he was going to die down here.

_“Vasco!”_

He looked up.

“ _Padre_?”

“We’re getting you out of here!” Romano called down, shouldering his rifle. “Just stay there, your _Papá_ brought a ro-”

Vasco’s nostrils flared at the smell of a hot, rancid breath behind him. Above, his father screamed in wordless rage. A gunshot- two, three, echoed, painfully loud in the small space, and Vasco clutched at the rock wall, closing his eyes; waiting.

Another deafening _bang_ , and the prick of teeth through his clothes.

* * *

“So where are we?” Romania asked, rifle at the ready.

Yao blinked and mentally shook himself, tearing his eyes away from the false front of paper screens.

“By the entrance to the annex,” he said slowly, and pointed down the hallway. “The front door is there, and the stairs.”

Cezar started down the corridor, but China hesitated, glancing back at the annex door.

There was a soft breeze, cool and gentle against his skin, trickling out from the slight gap between the barely-open door and the frame.

He took half a step sideways, then forced himself to stop and exercise his common sense.

_No. I will not be tempted- this is a demon. If it wants me to go near that door, I should be running in the opposite direction._

He caught up to Romania and the two of them stood at the foot of the stairs.

Cezar contemplated the door.

“Don’t bother,” Yao said. “It won’t open without the key.”

His companion turned from the door, his expression suggesting he was working on scheming something.

“Which way?”

Yao thought for a few moments.

“Up,” finally decided. “Second floor. There’s a room there that Italy will set up in- he always did.”

They ascended the stairs, China in front with his sword out, Romania behind, carefully walking sideways, rifle at the ready.

They reached the top without incident.

Cezar looked the hallway up and down suspiciously.

China nodded off to left.

“The-”

Above them, there was the loud thunder of feet on the stairs, and, from around the corner further down the hallway, the squeak and clomp of someone running too fast and slipping on the hardwood.

Romania raised his rifle and ducked around the corner, aiming for the far end of the corridor.

Giovanna shot into the far end, scrambling for her balance and losing it, tumbling to the floor. She slid a few inches as she tried to stand again, more people appearing behind her.

Yao pushed past Cezar and grabbed her arm, pulling her upright.

“Upstairs,” she gasped. “ _Pater_ \- _demon-_ ”

Romania saved a cursory glance for Miervaldis, unable to properly stand between Santiano and Rémy, and set off for the stairs to the next floor, around the corner, at a dead run.

“Down the hall, right around the corner, first door to the left,” China ordered her quickly. “In the back corner there should be a large metal door. Go in and up the stairs-”

The _bang_ of Romania’s rifle going off made them all jump.

“-we’ll come get you there and if we don’t Veneziano should!”

He didn’t bother to make sure that Giovanna kept going in the direction he pushed her, focusing only on dashing past the others and taking the second-floor stairs two at a time. On the floor above, he could make out Latvia taking a swing at a nauseatingly-familiar gray hand, his scream of fury drowned out by the monster’s screeching roar of pain as the attack connected.

Halfway there.

Romania’s second gunshot was louder and much more painful, echoing in the confines of the stairway and ringing in his ears. The Vatican was pushing himself off the wall behind Latvia, left arm dripping blood onto the floor. Romania dropped the rifle and pulled out the handgun, landing two shots the sprayed blood, and three more that buried themselves ineffectually into the wall.

Yao hit the top of the stairs and used his momentum to pivot on one foot, crouching to avoid a swipe by the demon and launched himself under the monster’s arm, his sword puncturing skin and muscle, tearing through its side.

It snarled angrily and turned to follow him, leaving its other side open to Raivis, whose slash sheared off a flap of flesh. Cezar’s sixth bullet burrowed into the monster, hitting bone.

By unconscious, unspoken agreement reached through centuries of battle, the four mortal Nations spread out- Latvia by the stairs, China behind; Romania in the join of the side hallway, the Vatican against the wall, where he could cover for his injured arm.

They kept the demon turning, slashing and stabbing at whatever area was least protected. Cezar finished his clip with two more shots, one aimed high to avoid Cristoforo that grazed the demon’s head, the other low, to the hip.

Yao stayed light on his feet, cursing the haste that had led him to neglect donning any armor before leaving his country. A blow from the demon made a mess of the side of his face and he quickly backed up, putting distance between him and the threat until his vision cleared.

The clank of Romania’s handgun against the floor was nearly lost behind Raivis’s furious litany of Latvian. China brought a sleeve up to wipe away the blood running into his eye just in time to see the demon claw at the Nation opposite of him, sending up sparks where the talons screeched across the steel plate he wore, only for the armor to slip and flap loose when a sharp tip caught on one of the leather straps.

The sudden change in weight made Latvia jerk to one side, sword too low to be of any help. Romania was still reaching for his next weapon, and China had yet to regain his ground.

Cristoforo slipped under the monster’s arm, pulled his arm back, and skewered the demon right in the stomach.

It roared in anger and he took a quick step sideways, the sword jerking within the thing’s guts and tearing a long, deep gash as it exited flesh.

A vile stink arose and Latvia lunged forward to cover the Vatican. Cezar scored a glancing blow on a leg with a long knife he’d pulled free.

China advanced again, sword aimed.

The demon ignored them, eyes fixed straight into Cristoforo’s.

It hissed, once, and faded into thin air.

No one moved for a moment.

Romania’s eyes slide towards China.

“That normal?”

Yao nodded, then held his head as pain shot across his face.

“It won’t be back for a little while.”

Latvia let out a long, shuddering sigh and wiped his sword on his pants leg before sheathing it, mostly clean.

“Thank you,” he said, groping over his shoulder with one hand in an attempt to unfasten the other straps of the pauldron and gardbrace that had swung free. Cristoforo reached out with his good hand to help, and the steel plates clattered to the floor.

Yao frowned at him as Raivis gathered his armor.

“I know you preach peace, but surely you can’t be _that_ terrible at fighting.”

Cristoforo raised his sword briefly.

“This is a stabbing weapon, meant for someone hiding behind a shield.”

“Then you should have brought one,” he scolded angrily. “That won’t heal well in here.”

The Vatican tried moving his injured arm and winced slightly, but managed a few basic motions.

“I will be fine.”

“Just what everyone always said,” China muttered under his breath. “Don’t think _I’m_ going to be the one to tell your brother you were being stupid. He won’t be happy with you.”

“I already knew that.”

* * *

Antonio froze halfway through tying the rope around one of the standing stone pillars at the cave mouth and listened to the echoes of the last gunshot die away, and the wet, crunching sounds from the pit below.

He turned and grabbed the back of Lovino’s coat, pulling him back away from the edge, to where he couldn’t see anymore, and down into his arms.

Lovino was shaking badly and Antonio did the best he could to cover his husband’s ears and spare him some of what they both knew was happening below, but there was only so much Spain could do.

And it wasn’t enough.

He sat waiting, listening, weeping silently, until the _skrtch skrtch_ of claws on stone faded away.

“Lovino,” he said quietly, turning his head so he could speak in Romano’s ear. “I’m going to go down and get him.”

_“No.”_

“Yes,” Spain said, moving away and finishing the knot in the rope that would keep it from slipping.

Lovino grabbed fistfuls of his shirt.

“You are _not_ going down there,” he hissed, voice thick. _“I am not losing you.”_

“You’re not going to,” Antonio assured him, yanking on the rope. It held. “I’m going down there, getting… Vasco, and coming back. It won’t take more than three minutes.”

Lovino followed him upwards as he stood.

“No, no, _no;_ you _idiot-_ ”

Spain stood on the edge of the hole, holding the rope. He looked down to check the length and thought of his days in South America, doing his best to be objective in the face of what he could see of his son.

“Do you want to _leave_ him down there?” he asked Romano, voice tight. “There’s a demon, you know.”

Romano was silent, and Antonio started down the rope.

His feet touched bottom not long after, and he forced himself to properly look at what the demon had done to his son.

Spain had seen plenty of humans dead and dying in his life; every Nation had. It had stopped being such a gut-wrenching, stomach-churning shock centuries ago.

But none of those humans had been his son.

Antonio picked up Vasco’s corpse and draped it upright, awkwardly, over his back, using the end of the rope to tie them together.

He grabbed it with both hands when he was finished and tugged.

“Lovino,” he called. “Pull us up.”

They started to rise, and he used his feet to keep himself away from the rough stone walls, as he had on the way down.

Romano grabbed Spain when he was halfway over the edge of the hole and helped haul him off, then started pulling at the knot in the rope that kept his son’s body secured to Antonio’s back.

His husband helped him with it, and a few seconds later the dead weight was lifted away, leaving behind an unpleasant wet stickiness in the blood soaked shirt plastered to his back.

Lovino lay Vasco down on the floor of the cave and knelt over him, cradling his head and whispering something indistinct- Latin, Greek, Neapolitan or Italian, Spain couldn’t tell.

Antonio turned away and took care of the rope.

* * *

Nia grabbed the front of Cass’s shirt and started to push him backwards frantically, determined to get away from the door before whatever had come through could attack them.

Cassiel had his hands raised, looking like he was trying to surrender as his cousin tried to make him turn around and _run._

She started to call to the others in the room.

_“Ján-!”_

Cass dug his heels against the throw carpet and leaned towards her, trying to counteract her pushing.

“Nia; Nia, it’s just your father.”

She froze for a moment, then turned.

Feliciano held his arms out.

Nia collapsed into them, crying and clutching at his brigandine.

“ _Babbo_ \- _Babbo_ , the house is _alive_ there were _dead people_ _please_ get us out I want to go back _please-_ ”

Veneziano held her tightly, looking stricken at her words.

_“Dead-”_

“No one we knew,” Cassiel said quickly. “There was- They were behind pictures.”

He paused.

“You- had one.”

“There were these little plates underneath and they had _Vati_ and _Onkel_ and _Zio_ and _Tio_ a-and France and England and China and Russia and they _moved_ and more came out of the _wall_ and _we_ were on them, _Babbo_ _the house knows our **names-**_ ”

He quieted her with a kiss to the hair and a murmur.

“I know, _cara_ , I know,” he told his daughter softly. “I know, it’s scary. I’m going to protect you, okay? I’ll make sure you get out.”

Feliciano pushed away a little, so he could look into her eyes.

“You’re safe with me,” he promised.

Nia was trembling.

“But Cato said there was a _monster_ downstairs it k- _killed_ Zheng-”

Veneziano looked behind her, to where János and Cato had appeared from behind the bookshelves.

“He’s not dead,” he told her, holding out a hand to Cato. She inched into his arms, where Nia took her hand.

“He’s really hurt, but he’s not dead. Heinrich- he’s okay, Nia, your brother’s fine- he called me and I came to rescue you all and I took Zheng to the safest place in the house, Heinrich’s sitting with him, it’s not that far from here, he’s worried about you Cato-”

She pulled away from him.

“Where-”

“Oh my God,” János said, stunned. “You’ve got _blood_ on you.”

Nia jerked away, noticing for the first time the blood soaked into her sleeve. Cato looked down at the front of her shirt, similarly stained.

“It’s not mine,” Feliciano said quickly.

“It’s… Zheng’s, isn’t it?” Cass asked, trepidation in his voice.

Feliciano blinked, and nodded.

Cato stared wide-eyed at him, taking in the smeared portions of Veneziano’s brigandine, and the few scarlet drops that had burst on the floor.

“I have to see him _now,_ ” she said urgently. “ _Zio_ , if that’s all his and he was hurt _‘badly’_ then he needs someone to look after him _immediately-_ ”

Feliciano grabbed her arm to keep her from running off.

“I know, I know- just stay with me. We’re going.”

* * *

_After the darkness and the fall, Feliciano woke in an inferno and torment, utterly alone._

* * *

Lovino took a step.

He left footprints rimmed with blood in the snow. He could feel it freezing in his clothes and drying on his hair and skin, crusting unpleasantly.

Keep walking.

The House.

France noticed him coming and rose in alarm.

“Lovino-”

Ignore him.

He kept his eyes locked on the gate and knelt down in the snow next to his brother-in-law.

The snow stained.

Finland looked at him in concern.

“Romano-”

He pulled his phone out, ignoring how the blood rubbed of his hands and onto the shiny metal. He hit a preset number.

_‘The number you are trying to reach-’_

“You’re cryin’,” Sweden said. “Say somethin’.”

_‘The number you are trying to reach-’_

This worked before.

It should work now.

_‘The number you are trying to reach-’_

“Where’s Spain?” Prussia asked.

Germany was looking at him like he knew what had happened.

_‘The number you are trying-’_

“…Your son?” Denmark asked softly.

_‘The number-’_

Just the still-falling snow.

_Bzzzzt. Bzzzzt. Bzzzzt._

* * *

A ringtone broke through the tense, fleeting silence in the room.

Feliciano whirled away from Cristoforo, shooting him a nasty glare before reaching for his phone.

“They’re working?” China murmured to himself from his seat next to his son’s bed. Cato sat on the other side, one hand holding her husband’s; her head on his chest, listening to his pained breathing.

Cristoforo glared at his brother’s back before turning himself and stalking off to pull a chair out from one of the large wood tables and sit in the corner, where Cezar was occupying himself by reloading his guns.

“ _Babbo,_ ” Heinrich asked, uneasy from the still-present atmosphere of his father and uncle’s fight. “Who is it?”

“Lovino,” Feliciano muttered as he walked towards the door, passing Miervaldis, curled up on the floor under some blankets next to Raivis, carefully stitching his slashed armor straps back together, at a loss about how to help his son.

“Where-”

The rest of Rémy’s sentence was cut off by the door closing behind Italy.

Feliciano stood at the top of the stairs to the room and answered his phone, weary and tired and dreading another shouting match with his other brother.

“ _Fratello_ , please-”

“Vasco’s dead.”

Lovino said it so mechanically that it took a moment for it to set in.

“Don’t waste time looking for him. Antonio took the body back to Switzerland’s.”

“I-A- _Madre di Dio-_ **_Lovino-_** ”

“Don’t risk anyone else. He’s gone, don’t en-en-n-n-”

Feliciano heard his brother start sobbing on the other side of the phone. He rested his back against the wall and slid down to the floor, tears of his own leaking from his eyes.

“He’s _gone,_ Feli, he was here a few hours ago and now he’s _dead-_ ”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry _-_ ”

“Why are _you_ the one who’s fucking _sorry;_ _I’m_ the one who couldn’t- I was _there,_ I-”

“No, no, _no-_ you can’t do that to yourself, Lovino. You _can’t._ You _tried,_ I know you did; I wasn’t there but you wouldn’t _not_ try for someone you love-”

“Half a century, he should have had at _least_ half a century left-”

“You should go back to Switzerland’s with Antonio-”

 _“No!”_ his brother screamed at him through the phone. “Not while you’re still in there! You _have_ to come out, Feli, _you have to!_ ”

Feliciano closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall.

“I’m not as important as the children, Lovi-”

 _“No,”_ Lovino hissed into the phone, voice thick. “ _No._ You _are_ coming out because right now I can feel the whole fucking peninsula and I am _not_ dealing with all your shit, it’s _yours_ so you come back out and _take it back,_ because I _won’t_ have it from you!”

“I’ll bring your daughter back to you, Lovino _,_ ” he promised. “Cato will come back safe. I’ve found her and she’s fine. I- I’ll tell her about Vasco for you.”

“Don’t avoid the subject! You- You _promise_ me that you’ll come out!”

“I can’t-”

_“DO IT!”_

“I… I promise I’ll come out of the house. I promise you’ll see me again.”

“Fucking right you will,” Lovino told him hoarsely.

“…Are you mad at me?” Feliciano asked quietly.

“Of _course_ I’m mad at you, you little shit. You ran off into a demon house without properly telling anyone and you’ve left me _alone_ out here!”

“You’ve got the others-”

_“You know what I mean.”_

“What about the others?”

“Everybody panicked and your husband nearly had a mental breakdown. That’s another thing you’ve got to get back out here for- I’m _not_ dealing with him for you.”

There were a few moments of silence, and then some clamoring in the background. Lovino snarled at whoever was responsible for the noise.

“They want to know what’s going on.”

“Oh. Um-”

Feliciano tried to think of a way to summarize.

“Everyone’s accounted for but Armas, s-since you found- oh Lovino, I’m _really_ really-”

“Just keep going!”

“Uh- Zheng and Cato got attacked by the demon-”

Lovino inhaled sharply.

“-but Zheng saved her so you don’t have to worry about her; but _he_ got really hurt a-and I don’t-”

He lowered his voice.

“We don’t know if he’ll live or not. Something really _weird_ happened to Miervaldis, I- I think he went _insane_ because he says he’s hearing voices and being completely hysterical when he’s not quiet; but all our other children are safe, just really scared and shaken. Uh- Cristoforo and Latvia and Yao and Romania-”

“What the _fuck?_ When did China and Romania get in there?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know, but they fought the demon and Yao’s face is a little messed up and Cristoforo was _stupid_ and brought Grandfather’s _gladius_ but no shield and his arm is hurt and he’s being really _stubborn_ about it.”

Lovino muttered something uncomplimentary about the Vatican and total lack of fear under his breath.

“Oh. And he had an episode of righteous outrage and blew part of the third floor up and attracted the demon _on purpose_.”

“ _Fuck_ him. Hit the bastard for me.”

“…I kind of already did, Lovino.”

His brother sighed deeply, and sniffed.

“Hey. Your husband’s sitting here staring at me like I know the meaning of life or some shit like that.”

Feliciano’s heart sank.

_Ludwig-_

“Put him on, okay? And I love you, Lovino.”

“I love you, Feliciano.”

* * *

Lovino shoved his phone at his brother-in-law.

“He wants to talk to you.”

Ludwig snatched it immediately and kicked up a light powdering of snow as he scrambled to his feet, determined to hold out just long enough to get away from the rest of the group.

He followed the path of the wall towards the corner at the nearest end of the clearing.

“Ludwig?”

His name sounded so uncertain and small and alone through the phone when it was that far away.

Ludwig ducked around the corner of the wall and collapsed sideways against it, cradling the phone to his ear.

 “Feli, Feli _Spatzi-_ ” he gasped.

Feliciano’s voice on the other end of the phone was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.

“Ludwig, it’s all right, it’s okay, I’m fine-”

“An-”

“Heinrich and Nia are fine too _amato_ , we’re- we’re as safe as we _can_ be.”

Ludwig took a shaky breath.

“Good. Good, that’s- that’s _wonderful-_ ”

His voice cracked.

“…Ludwig,” Feliciano said after a moment, sadly. “You’re crying.”

“You’re coming back,” he said, not sure whose benefit he was saying it for. “You’re coming back; _you’re coming back to me-_ ”

“I might not, Ludwig.”

“Yes you will!” he snapped desperately. “You’re coming back; you got us out before and you’ll do it again and I’ll- I’ll hold you again, and kiss you-”

“You don’t know that.”

“ _You can’t die!_ You _have_ to come back, Feliciano, you _have_ to- I- I- _I love you,_ so _promise_ me-”

“No,” Feliciano told him, sounding hurt. “No.”

 _“Promise me!”_ Ludwig begged. “Promise me you’ll come back!”

“You shouldn’t ask people to make promises like that, Ludwig.”

“ _Per favore_ , _Engle_. _Da ritornami_.”

“ ** _Deutschland._** ”

_“Feli-”_

“Stop. Just stop talking.”

Ludwig forced himself to.

“I can’t promise that, _amato_ ,” Feliciano said softly. “You have to accept that I might not come out.”

“Bu-”

“Ludwig.”

 _"You have to come back,”_ Ludwig told him quietly, voice strained. “How am I supposed to live forever without you?”

Feliciano sighed.

“You let yourself mourn,” he said after a moment.  “You cry and scream and do whatever you need to to get the hurt out. You don’t cling to it; you don’t try to forget about it. You let it go early, so you can remember the person you lost as happily as you can as soon as you can. If you hold on too tightly to the hurt and the memories, you’ll poison your mind. You never forget the person you lost, but you don’t spend all your time thinking about them and wondering what could have been. Eventually you find happiness somewhere else.”

“No- _No,_ Feli, I wo-”

_“Don’t!”_

It came out angry, and betrayed.

“… _Spatzi_?” Ludwig asked after a few seconds. “I- I just want _you-_ ”

“ _Now_ you do,” Feliciano told him. “Later you might want someone else.”

"I _**married** you-”_

“ _’Till death do us part,’_ Ludwig.”

He inhaled sharply.

“ _We_ promised _‘for as long as we both shall love each other’_ ,” he reminded Feliciano, voice shaking. “I will _never_ stop wanting you-”

“ _Ludwig!_ I’m telling you not to hold yourself to that!” Feliciano replied, sounding annoyed.

Silence.

Ludwig wrapped his free arm around his midsection and bent forwards slightly, feeling nauseous and light-headed.

“You… you don’t want to keep-”

“No; _no,_ Ludwig; _it’s not like that-_ ”

“Then what _is_ it like!” he demanded, desperate. The tears had picked up a little.

Feliciano sighed.

“You… remember Valentine’s Day? The first one.”

“Of course.”

“I told you my first love was a boy. I had to _choose,_ Ludwig. I promised him that I’d wait; and he died. We never had anything like what you and I made, but… I still broke that promise. I don’t want to you to _ever_ have to do that- I don’t want you to have to choose between betrayal and happiness. Don’t forget what we had together, but don’t hold yourself to me when I can’t be there for you anymore, either. So no promises; no vows.”

Ludwig was silent.

“Feliciano?” he asked, voice tight.

“Yes?”

“If- If I agree to that, you have to agree to something too, all right?”

“What, _amato_?”

“You-You remember the second war? Those times we were fighting and then Rome-”

“Yes.”

“Will you do that for me, if you can? Come back to where I can _see_ you one more time, at least? Please- you don’t have to say anything or do anything, just come back, for a little while. I- I just- I can’t _stand_ the thought of never seeing you again.”

A sad, heavy sigh.

“If I can.”

Ludwig just managed a smile.

“Thank you.”

In the silence, he concentrated Feliciano breathing on the other end of the line.

“ _Sp-_ ”

Feliciano spoke.

“ _Addio_ ; _amato_.”

Ludwig was left listening to a dial tone.

Slowly, he slid down the wall to kneel in the snow and sob where no one could hear him.

* * *

_Feliciano screamed for the hundredth time; the thousandth; the millionth- and no one came._

* * *

Cato lifted her head as the door half-slammed shut nearby to meet China’s eyes. The rattle of Zheng’s breathing filled the silence.

“The phones-” she began questioningly.

“Sometimes they work,” Yao said, sounding weary. “Most of the time they don’t.”

A breathy sound began close by, and the two of them looked at Zheng in worry. He opened his mouth to say something, but the words never properly formed, leaving him with only a rasping half-choke.

“Don’t try talking,” Cato ordered him hurriedly. “Rest your lungs-”

Her husband managed to shake his head, minutely.

“Familiar,” he managed to say. “This.”

Yao leaned closer, and Zheng smiled at him.

“Amst-t-t-t-t-t-”

“Stop,” China said, placing a hand over his mouth.

Zheng closed his eyes and tried taking a few deep breaths.

 _“Cato,”_ he forced out after a few moments. “Love you. Happy we met.”

She smiled weakly at him.

“Even under the circumstances?” she asked quietly.

Another smile, and a light squeeze on her hand in his.

“Turned out…”

Deep breath.

“…better than should’ve.”

“I’m glad.”

Zheng sighed, and his head turned slightly to the side, eyes still closed.

China placed one hand on his son’s forehead.

“Open your eyes.”

“Tired,” Zheng muttered.

“You _can’t_ sleep,” Cato reminded him urgently. “You’re too badly hurt-”

“Love you both,” he murmured, and dropped off into unconsciousness.

Yao glanced over at his daughter-in-law and took her free hand, grasping it gently and twining their fingers together. Cato shifted in her seat to get closer to the edge of the bed and looked at him for a moment before laying her head back down lightly on Zheng’s chest, listening to his heartbeat.

* * *

Ásdís kicked the door once more in rage and frustration and screamed a few choice words at it.

Otherwise, the room was silent. The babies had picked up on the mood as well, and were nestled quietly against their parents.

Zell was worrying with her rosary. The wooden beads clicked and clacked against each other as she recited the prayers to herself.

Teodozja hugged Roksana to her tightly, glancing around in apprehension at the others, unsure about what to do.

Vincenzo and Giuditta were huddled together on one of the couches, Lorenza between them, who was awkwardly holding Apollonia and Fabrizia in her lap.

Ásdís swore at the door again.

“Please stop,” Zell asked her quietly.

“ _Hell_ no!” she spat. “I’m getting out of here and _getting some answers!_ ”

“That man said there was a _demon_ ,” Dosia burst out frantically. “What if there’re _more;_ what if they’re _everywhere?_ I-I don’t want to have to worry when I go outside or meet people a-and Roksana’s so _small_ and-”

“You never mentioned _demons_ when you told me about your family,” Lorenza told her husband shakily.

“I- I didn’t know,” he said. His gaze seemed vacant. “I never would have guessed…”

 “Why wouldn’t they _tell_ us?” Giuditta said softly. “This- It’s-”

“What else haven’t they told you- told _us?_ ” Lorenza demanded, holding the children closer to herself. “If there _are_ demons that come up from Hell, then what else is there- monsters? Fairies? How many myths are true?”

“Oh God,” Dosia moaned, clutching at Roksana. “What if there actually _was_ a dragon under Kraków? What if there are _still-_ ”

 “We’re not going to know unless we get out of here!” Ásdís snapped at them all. Giuditta left the couch and tried to pull her away from the door before she hurt herself trying to knock it down, but Ásdís pushed her away.

Øystein got between his cousin and the door before she could do anything.

“Let me get it,” he said.

“H-”

The words died on Giuditta’s lips.

Øystein reached towards the doorknob with both hands. The air over them had the same violent shimmer that a road on a hot day did.

She could feel the heat.

Øystein grabbed the doorknob suddenly with both hands and the air filled with a high _hiss_. A thin rivulet of metal began to drip between his fingers, and a second later more poured down the door in a burning stream. The door began to smoke as the old, varnished wood started to catch.

Behind them, Zell started murmuring a startled prayer in Latin.

_“Øystein-”_

Vincenzo couldn’t finish his sentence for the shock.

Øystein snatched his hands away. The flowing metal cooled instantly. There was a sharp _snap-crack_ that made everyone jump, and the metal coating the palms of his hands fissured along the contours of the muscles under his skin.

 _“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck-”_ Øystein muttered under his breath as he brushed the metal off his hands.

Vincenzo found his voice again.

“Holy shit,” he said, starting at the flakes on the floor.

“Don’t ask me to do that again because it damn well _hurts!_ ” Øystein half-yelled, and stuck two fingers in the now-empty and useless latch hole on the door.

He pulled it open part way, paused for a split second, and slammed it shut, collapsing against the vile-smelling wood, hand over his mouth.

His shoulders were shaking.

Zell started to stand, uncertainly, and Ásdís dropped to the floor in front of him and grabbed his shoulders.

Øystein moved his hand before Ásdís could try and do it for him.

“Don’t,” he gasped. His voice was strangely shaky. It took a moment to register- but after a moment, everyone realized.

He was trying desperately not to laugh, the sort of laughter that burst out of nowhere, shoving a smile ahead of it to bury fear and agitation before it can be properly acknowledged.

The floor of the hallway beyond the door creaked as someone set a first foot upon the stairs at the end of the corridor.

“Don’t,” Øystein repeated, grabbing Giuditta’s wrist as she reached for the door. “You don’t want to see-”

Ditta pried him off and shoved him into Ásdís’s arms before reaching for the door again.

“You don’t _you don’t_ your father you don’t _want-_ ”

Ditta opened the door and slipped in blood. She caught herself on the doorframe seconds before losing her balance entirely, and stared, wide-eyed, at the trail of faint blood-edged footprints and delicate, drying spatters leading across the hall rug and wood floor to the stairs.

 _“Papá!”_ she yelled, pounding up the stairs. **_“Papá!”_**  

A door on the third floor was open- one of the guest bathrooms.

Ditta pushed the door open all the way.

“Pa-”

Spain was hunched over the bathtub, up to his shoulders in watered-down blood. He half-turned to look at her, and she saw it across his face and soaked into the entire front of his shirt as well. His forearm rested on the side of the tub, a soaked washcloth dangling from a hand.

“ _Hola_ , _cariña_ ,” he said softly. “You came to say hello to your brother?”

Giuditta looked past her father into the tub, and got as far as recognizing Vasco’s face before the ungodly stench hit.

She whirled around and slammed the door shut behind her, torn between screaming and vomiting all over the floor.

Inside, Antonio turned back to the tub and continued washing the blood off his son’s corpse.

* * *

Raivis shrugged his armor back on and stood, pulling at the new stiches he’d just finished. The leather straps held, though there was a slight, worrying give where he’d had to improvise a little.

Cezar glanced up at him.

“Going somewhere?”

Raivis adjusted the plate slightly and drew his sword. The sound drew the attention of the rest of the room.

“Armas is still missing,” he reminded everyone as he reached for the doorknob. “And Vasco. We can’t leave them for the demon.”

China glanced down at his son.

“At least wait for Italy-”

The door opened from the other side just as Latvia started to pull it open, and he was forced to take a quick step back.

Feliciano stared at him, expression blank.

“…Italy?”

“What are you doing.”

Cristoforo appeared beside him and gently took his arm, leading him through the door and into the room towards the large table.

Feliciano took a few complacent steps, then stopped and twisted to look back at Latvia.

“What are you doing.”

The dead quality of his voice put Raivis in mind of veterans who’d held that status for too long.

“To find the others,” he said carefully, trying to think of a way to keep Italy in the room and out of more fighting. He wasn’t sure what the phone call he’d left to take had been about, but it had drastically changed his mood. “Rest for a little while-”

Feliciano pulled out of the Vatican’s grip, but was immediately snatched back without giving any resistance.

“You need someone who knows the house.”

Romania stood up, rifle in hand.

“We can fight,” he told Italy firmly. “Your children need you more than we do.”

Cristoforo tried to pull him towards the table, but Feliciano set his feet against the floor and refused to move, still staring at Raivis.

“Vasco is dead. Stay out of the basement.”

Latvia held his breath for a moment and stiffened, waiting for a reaction.

Italy gave none.

Over by the beds, Cato began crying softly.

Cezar slipped out the door and gestured for Raivis to follow.

* * *

_Somewhere, a clock struck nine._

_Three of the beds had been properly made- no one would be sleeping in a friendly pile tonight. The sheets were stained, unusable, and the odor of blood and death hung in the air along with the thin smoke of the burning candles. Light spilled faintly from the gathering of tapers on the table, barely reaching past the edges of the chairs._

_Alfred curled up on the bed farthest from the improvised biers, fitting himself into the space left by Arthur’s sleeping form. Matthew dozed fitfully in a chair by the table, wrapped in a thick blanket, glasses glinting in the candlelight. Francis, too agitated by the blood and smoke and memories of the recent war to sleep, measured the floor between Matthew’s chair and Arthur’s bed, his pacing taking him past the corpses of his old friends._

_Yao was swallowed in the shadows on the other side of the room. Kiku’s white jacket, thrown over both of them and dulled in the thick darkness, was the only marker to show where the two of them had gone to make their peace and avoid the death that had once again stolen into their lives._

_Only Ludwig seemed willing to stay near the quiet scene that reminded everyone too strongly of the war they had just ended. He stood vigil by the bed Feliciano’s body lay on, jaw set and hands clenched, breathing measuredly through his nose. He stared resolutely at the opposite wall until his eyes slid, inexorably, to the dead Nations next to him- first touching on Antonio and Ivan, who might have once been glad to know him, given different circumstances, before settling on the face of his first and only true friend, still not completely cleaned of blood._

_Lovino sat in a chair at the head of the table, and few seats above Matthew, and glared at the candles so his eyes watered from exposure and not grief as he silently recited every prayer he knew._

_No one spoke._

_They knew tomorrow they would have to do something- try_ something. _They would have to go on with three dead comrades and one blind, powerless one- they would have to go on with no options and no plans._

_But that was a problem for tomorrow, to be solved after Francis glanced once too often at Lovino at the table and Ludwig by the beds, and Gilbert left from his station by the door to take his brother and his friend firmly in hand and settle them on the floor between Feliciano and Antonio’s beds to their best to sleep._

_In the darkness as a clock struck eleven-thirty, Lovino opened the diary to the candlelight._

* * *

Armas was questioning his decision to bring the sword.

It was a light thing, some type of rapier- he didn’t know enough about swords to say what. But there had been some sort of unhuman roaring before, and gunshots, and an explosion, so _someone_ else was in this house with him and the others.

He didn’t know who, or what, so it was only reasonable that he take advantage of the opportunity to defend himself when he found it, even though he had no idea how to properly fight with a blade.

 _It can’t be that much harder than using a gun,_ he told himself. His parents had taught him how to shoot, and do it well. _Anyone can pick up a gun and use it- the same should go for this, it’s simple._

Armas had no idea where he was going. He knew that the explosions and shooting had happened from further up in the house than where he’d been, but he’d only found the remains of a burnt-out room on the third floor, and no people.

A hunt through the fourth floor had brought him to the bottom of the darkest, ricketiest staircase he’d ever seen in his life.

Armas put one foot on the first step and tested it. It creaked loudly, but nothing else happened. It was the same for his next step, and then the third.

At the top of the stairs, he found a sight he could have lived forever without witnessing- blood, old; and newer stains, smears, and a large splash with a trail of splatters that led back towards the stairs.

Something in Armas’s head _click_ ed, and suddenly it was like he was holding one of the _Maavoimat_ ’s decommissioned rifles in his hand, lurking behind a screen of pine branches, staring down his scope at a target far below on the other end of an early-spring field.

Things were distant. They didn’t matter so much, nearly as much, at all- everything was what he had to focus on at the moment.

A memory of his father’s hard, violet eyes his first day of rifle lessons flitted through his mind.

_You do what you have to._

And so he sheathed the rapier he didn’t know how to use, focused on the blood trail, and started carefully back down the stairs and down, through the house, until he came to the room with steel door, and Romania and Latvia had been going to look for him- and there were people, and he could just… stop.

* * *

Poland stepped into the room and stopped in confusion to pick metal slivers out of the sole of his shoe. For the moment, he ignored the others in the room and looked around, trying to figure out where they’d come from.

“ _Pan_ Łukasiewicz?” Teodozja asked quietly.

“Did the doorknob, like, _melt_ off?” he asked in turn, sticking two fingers through the hole in the door where the lock had been, swinging the wood slab back and forth a few times to examine the cooled streams of metal fused to it.

“Øystein did it,” Vincenzo said quickly.

Lorenza stood, placing Apollonia in the spot she’d vacated.

“I-”

Feliks looked over to where Øystein was sitting against the wall, still trying to compose himself and forget the throbbing in his hands.

“Norway taught you some tricks, huh?” he asked, kneeling down in front of the man and examining the skin on Øystein’s palms. “It’s been, like, a couple centuries since I saw him do something that totally obvious.”

“Norway does _what?_ ” Zell asked, and suddenly everyone was speaking at once.

“What; haven’t you-”

“- _demons_ , no one-”

“-I-I don’t want to see-”

“Woah, everybody like, take a deep breath and calm down,” Poland said, standing and holding his hands out.   

 _“I am **not CALMING DOWN!** ”_ Ásdís screamed at him. “We found out today that we’ve been _lied_ _to_ our **_whole lives!_** ”

“Uh-”

“I thought we _knew_ what sort of world we were living in!” she continued. “But _now_ we’ve been told it’s _not_ and **_no one is EXPLAINING!_** ”

“I’m totally gonna try. Just… sit down first.”

Ásdís glared at him and sat next to Øystein, pulling her cousin against her.

Poland looked around.

“So-”

“There’s not _really_ a demon?” Vincenzo asked hopelessly.

“There’s a demon.”

There was silence in the room for a moment.

“How many _are_ there?” Dosia asked, scared.

“I am totally not the person to ask about that, but I know that demons are like, _really_ rare. They’re not _supposed_ to be here, somebody’s got to _call_ them.”

“But they _do_ come,” Zell said. “Who would even _do_ that- how many of the stories about possessions are-”

“I am totally not the person to ask about that,” Poland repeated. “That’s the Vatican’s job, I have like, _no_ idea.”

“His _job?_ ” Ásdís demanded.

“Like, _metaphorically,_ ” he responded. “He’s the Church, he’s totally the one qualified to deal with it.”

“So…” Lorenza narrowed her eyes at him. “Are any of the rest of you _‘qualified’_ for things?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s just Romania-”

“Oh my God-” Vincenzo moaned. “No, do _not_ tell me vampires also exist-”

“I’m like, _ninety-nine_ percent sure they’re all dead now. Dead _again._ Whatever.”

 _“ **Only** ninety-nine percent?”_ Dosia shrieked.

“They weren’t that common anyway!” Poland said hastily. “It was totally mostly something you were supposed to be born predisposed to and with like, _all_ of that stuff there were plenty of people who were born with like, teeth already in or in a caul and _they_ never became vampires! I’m totally not even sure if the biting thing was like, actually a _thing_ , even; _literally_ the only time I know it _definitely_ happened was Cezar and he only got some pretty fabulous teeth. Humans _totally_ just get sick and die if it like, happens enough, _promise._ ”

“ _That’s_ why Romania-” Ásdís said vaguely, gesturing at her mouth.

“He got _totally_ pissed- it was his first hunt by himself and he like, forgot something Transylvania had told him-”

“ _Transylvania_ hunted vampires too?” Vincenzo asked faintly.

“She was _totally_ more of a werewolf person- _oh my God,_ don’t look at me like that! Lycanthropy is something you _totally_ can’t catch; you’ve got to _decide_ to be one and do stuff for it or like, get cursed- bites just make you bleed. And I am _totally_ sure there aren’t any more werewolves- nobody’s done that stuff for like, two or three centuries now.”

Zell took a couple deep breaths.

“What _else_ should we know exists?” she asked, eyes shut as she clutched at her rosary.

“Everything I know of like, died out. You totally don’t have to worry about them-”

“The myths!” Lorenza demanded. “All the legends-”

“I can personally attest to the fact that there were mermaids in the Vistula. I have like, _no_ idea where they _went,_ but they were _totally_ there.”

 _“Mermaids-”_ Øystein squeaked.

“What about-” Lorenza cast around for something specific to bring up. “The Greeks-”

“I like, asked one time,” Poland told her. “Romano said that Sicily said Scylla and Charybdis were _total_ bull and that there were never Cyclopes on her island. I’ve got like, nothing else for you, ‘cause Ancient Greece would have known but she’s dead and only told Greece the stories, not if they were like, _true._ ”

Things were quiet for a few moments as everyone tried to fit their minds around this new information.

“You started talking about my uncle,” Ásdís said finally. “Like he could… do things.”

“Magic? Totally,” Feliks replied. “We do that.”

_“You-”_

“Okay, this one you can _totally_ not say we didn’t tell you kind of about,” Poland told them. “Most of it is like, not really flashy but you _knew_ about it. Getting better from being dead and taking miles-long steps and knowing how people are feeling is like, _classic_ fairytale magic stuff. _Totally_ not science.”

“There’s _more_ than that?” Vincenzo demanded, stunned.

Poland waved his hands around noncommittally.

“There’s only like, a couple people who do _magic_ -magic. I mean, everyone _could,_ but it’s a total _drag_ if you use it too much ‘cause then you can’t _stop;_ mostly it’s just like, an extra little thing nobody else has. We’re _totally_ low-key and you don’t get to pick that junk, it just happens.”

Zell spent a moment picking apart his sentence before asking her next question.

“Like what?”

Poland gave her a look.

“You haven’t like, seen your father _really_ run? He and his brother are like, _crazy_ quick. It’s not just the reflexes- I _know_ you’ve seen those, you can _totally_ tell Nia’s as fast at fencing as she is ‘cause she learned against those two. I _swear_ they go like, zero to sixty in a second flat.”

Zell thought of the mornings she’d watched her younger sister sweat through in a zipped-up leather jacket and fencing gloves, rapier in hand, facing off against Romano under the Italian summer sun, the Nation trusting in his superior speed and experience to keep him untouched by his niece’s blade.

Feliks watched her think and nodded to himself.

“It’s all stuff like that,” he continued. “America is like, really strong ‘cause he’s so important, but it’s _totally_ ridiculous the stuff he can do. Russia’s got this Siberian winter thing going on? I don’t even know, but it’s totally _not_ cool how fast he can get it to snow all over the place. And-”

Poland cast around his memory, trying to come up with something else.

“Like, the you just know stuff thing? Where you pay attention and you know how one of your people is feeling and then if you like, do it hard and long enough you totally know their life stories and stuff? That counts too. I’m telling you, this stuff is _totally_ not anything to freak out over.”

* * *

The rattling was getting worse- more frequent, more intense, faster- but worst, it was getting _fainter._

Cato glanced over at her father-in-law, who was seated stoically on a chair next to the bed where Tomoko was resting, arm bandaged. She spent a moment considering calling him over, but then Zheng’s breathing got worse and he was choking, the sound wet and raw.

Cato grabbed him and tried to pull him upright to drain the fluid out of his throat, but he only came up halfway; and then Cassiel was there on his other side, pulling him up the rest of the way to rest, still unconscious, against the headboard.

The choking stopped, but now the rattle of his breath had a sickeningly damp sound behind it.

Cass wiped away the few flecks of blood that had gathered on Zheng’s lips while Cato stood there, staring at him.

“His lungs are probably filling up,” he said.

A heartbeat- and then Cato punched him. She had aimed for his face but he was faster, and the blow caught his shoulder, glancing painfully off the major muscle in his neck.

“Woah Cat-”

 _“This is **your** fault!”_ she screamed at him. They got some looks, but the stress had begun to wear on everyone

“I-”

“Because _you_ couldn’t stand to stay at the house!” Catarina continued, stalking around to the other side of the bed and cornering him against the wall. “ ** _No-_** _you_ were _bored!”_

“This isn-”

“That doesn’t count for _shit!_ Vasco is _dead_ ; and _Zheng-_ ”

She cut herself off and took a deep breath, trying to calm herself down.

“It _happened._ It happened because of _you,_ so take some damn _responsibility_ for it.”

Cato turned away to pay attention to her husband, shoulders tight and crying silently.

Cassiel stayed backed into the corner between the wall and bed, hands still half-raised in the defensive position he hadn’t quite completed. He spent a moment scanning the room- Nia keeping up with her training schedule by the wall, shadow-fencing an imaginary opponent with the rapier Armas had brought with him, Miervaldis slowly coming out of whatever had been talking in his head earlier, Cristoforo sitting next to Veneziano, staying close for comfort.

“Hey,” he said quietly to Cato. “Move.”

“What?”

The air went tense and there was a sharp bitter taste to it that set Cato’s teeth on edge and set her instincts _screaming_ of death and pain and her heart pounded and her breath labored as Cassiel’s eyes slowly glowed the yellow-white of the winter sun and she fell over her chair in her desperate panic to get _away_ and it smashed against the floor as her back ran up against the legs of China’s chair and Cassiel gripped the sides of Zheng’s ruined torso.

* * *

The blood was thrumming in Heinrich’s veins, and there was a terrifying thrill spreading through him, like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down towards a bottom he couldn’t see.

“ _Babbo-_ ”

It was humming in Veneziano’s bones and he could _feel_ it, as natural and intrinsic as his people or his borders, far away outside the walls of the House. It was nearly a comfort.

But it was _wrong-_ it shouldn’t be happening, not here. There was no England, no Norway; Romania would never work with the thing he fought.

The Vatican was on his feet before anyone else had even sorted themselves out.

 _“Who is that?”_ he demanded, furious, glaring around the room in righteous anger.

It registered in Feliciano’s mind, and Cato reacted in blind terror to the danger; Zheng began to heal from the inside out, and suddenly it seemed everyone was moving at once.

Romania lunged to his feet, hand going for one of his many pouches. China stood but Cato clung to him, using him for leverage as she tried to keep him away from what she was certain would hurt him. The Vatican pinpointed the source of the magic and hesitated a moment before striding forward, stunned; but Veneziano was running on fear and shoved past him in a flat-out sprint.

 _“No no NO!”_ he screeched. “ _You’ll kill yourself Cassiel **stop!** ”_

He grabbed his nephew and dragged him away from Zheng and the bed, brain tingling as the aura of the magic washed over him.

_“STOP STOP STOP-”_

Zheng jerked and began to choke, eyes opening. Cato was by the bed again in a second and Yao was right with her, kneeling on the bed next to his son and forcing him half over the side, head down, Cato providing support from the floor while he hacked out the blood that had been slowly drowning him from his lungs.

“You can’t _do_ that in here!” Feliciano continued, shaking Cassiel in a vain attempt to make him release the magic he still had called up. “You’re pulling the power from your _life_ you’ll hurt yourself and _we can’t fix it_ **_no one can-_** ”

 _“We raised you better than this,”_ Cristoforo hissed at him, just as Romania arrived and threw a handful of salt straight into Cassiel’s face.

Cassiel shrieked and pushed Veneziano off him, clutching at his eyes, magic gone.

“Fuck what the _hell_ did you do?” he demanded, staggering for a moment until he managed to brace himself against the wall, eyes watering.

Cezar brushed his hands off.

“Salt works just as well against _sorcerers_ as it does for demons.”

“Do you have _any_ idea what you’re doing?” the Vatican spat. “Do you _want_ to damn yourself?”

Cassiel tried to rub the salt out of his eyes, but only made it sting worse.

“What- are you going to _burn_ me?” he snapped. “I just _saved_ Zheng, he’s not going to suddenly die on us- _ow,_ augh-”

The hacking from the bed faded away to wheezing and heavy breathing as Cassiel worked harder to rid himself of the salt; Zheng’s body trying to replenish its oxygen supply.

“Cato-” he whispered hoarsely, one hand clutching the front of her shirt.

She had one arm around his head, holding him to her; crying silently once more.

“It’s okay,” she murmured back. “It’s okay.”

Yao stroked his hair, gently, once, and turned him back over onto the bed. Cato followed, and husband and wife settled down together in China’s arms.

Cassiel growled in frustration and pushed off the wall.

“I’ve been doing magic since I was smart enough to realize what it was. Don’t tell me I don’t know my limits.”

He rubbed at the salt one final time before dropping his hands, leaving heavy streaks of blood across his cheekbones. A step; and Cassiel stared at his hands, uncomprehending, as a few stray grains of salt soaked red in his palms. He licked his lips-

Swallowed-

A trickle of blood ran out of his ear and down his neck, responding to the pressure change within his head.

Feliciano caught him as he began to stumble sideways as his legs gave out, falling unconscious as gravity pulled him down.

The room was silent.

“ _Patre-_ ” Gianna began, expression half-concealed fear.

“Tomorrow,” Cristoforo ordered, voice strong where his demeanor was not. “There will be time for all of this, tomorrow.” 

* * *

 

Night had fallen, and a fire glowed and crackled in the clearing in front of the House.

Sweden was dozing, his head in Finland’s lap. Montenegro huddled with France for warmth. Hungary tended the fire. Prussia and Austria sat next to each other.

Romano and Germany stayed apart, keeping vigil over the gate.

Silence reigned as the covenant to stay, regardless of time they spent in wait, remained understood and unspoken.

* * *

_Eleven thirty-five._

_Lovino put his hand down on the first page of the journal, just above the word ‘Veneziano’._

_The rasping tear of old parchment echoed through the room, unheard by the other sleeping occupants of the room._

_The page fragment came loose from the binding with one sharp tug, and he watched as it burned and curled into a black, glowing crisp over a candle flame, fluttering fitfully to the surface of the table, where he crushed it to fine ash._

_He closed the book and walked silently over to where his brother lay, dead, on the nearest bed. A bit of fumbling had Feliciano’s corpse draped across his back, arms hanging down over his shoulders._

_The book, sandwiched between their bodies, dug into his back as he shoved the door open and descended the stairs, following the tug of memories he hadn’t formed but was stuck with regardless._

_The second floor disappeared behind him as he stepped onto the ground floor and turned the corner at the stairs and stood, squarely facing the wall that supported the steps._

_A door, the one he knew should have been there, materialized from the blank white, the warmer, dark hardwood melting in. It swung open onto a room._

_The darkness within ticked._

_Romano stepped over the threshold and faced the master clock._

* * *

Everyone was asleep when Feliciano slipped out of the room, the book in hand.

Midnight came and passed as he emerged from the reinforced entrance to the hidden staircase; and it was officially Christmas when he took his first step down to the ground floor.

He stopped on the last stair and sat, staring at the broken section of wall stained with Zheng’s dried blood.

A few minutes later, he opened the book in his lap and ran his fingers over the torn surface of the parchment where his brother had saved his life- and everyone elses’s. The _‘Italia’_ he’d written nearly a century ago hadn’t faded even slightly.

He traced the lines of his own handwriting. By the time his finger had trailed off the last _‘a’_ , there was a steady stream of moving air. He looked up.

The demon was standing in the space between door and stairs, towering above him, looming over him.

Feliciano closed his eyes.

“I know it’s me you want,” he said quietly. “But you didn’t have to go through all this trouble. You didn’t have to involve our children. It wasn’t necessary.”

He lay both hands on the open book.

“Let everyone else walk out safe tomorrow. I’ll stay. You- You can have my soul again.”

There was a sudden emptiness in front of him he didn’t need his eyes to know about; and hands, normal-sized, nominally human, gripped his head. Feathers rustled.

Feliciano shuddered, but didn’t move.

Words were whispered, ones that didn’t require fluency for understanding.

When he opened his eyes, the path to the door was free, empty, unblocked.

Veneziano ascended the stairs knowing his offer had been accepted.

* * *

_Veneziano’s body made a dull_ thump _as it fell to the floor._

_Tick, tock, went the clock._

_Romano dropped to his knees next to him and slid the book over in front of them. He opened the front cover and pushed Veneziano’s hand down onto the first page, his own lying on top, their fingers interlaced over_ ‘Italia’.

_He reached into his pocket and took out the last lump of magic England had given them, slamming it down on the book._

“It says ‘Italia’!” _he screamed._ “Here we are, hellspawn! Italy is here, both of us, and we are going **back!”**

_Tock, tick, went the clock as the hands as they swung back and the book swum in Romano’s failing vision as he felt his grip on reality loosen._

* * *

Cristoforo was awoken with a touch to his shoulder and a hand over his mouth.

“Feliciano?” he whispered.

“I need my last rites.”

Horrified, he tried to sit up; but his brother’s grip kept him down.

_“Feli-”_

“I am going to _die_ in the morning, Cristophoro,” he hissed, voice tense with fear and pain. “I need them _now._ ”

The Vatican tried to sit up again, and this time Veneziano let him.

“Go-” Cristoforo had to stop and try again, running a hand through his hair in an attempt to steady his nerves. “Go out on the landing.”

Feliciano looked at him for a moment before standing and exiting out the door.

Cristoforo sat on the edge of the bed, head in hands.

His brother; dead in the morning. Two thousand years- two thousand years and five centuries, maybe more, Feliciano had lived- and he knew better than to doubt the other’s word. He had seen many people close to death, and many had shared the same expression he had just seen.

He wasn’t prepared for this. This was the most horrible place he could think of to hold last rites- it was unholy, cursed, he didn’t have oil or Eucharist to do everything _properly-_

In the end, Cristoforo forced himself to stand and take his bag with him out of the room and onto the small landing at the top of the hidden stairs where his brother waited. He would just have to make do.

Feliciano fell to his knees once the door clicked back into place.

Cristoforo reached into his bag and took out the bottle of holy water he’d brought along, taking a few steadying breaths.

“God’s peace be in this home,” he said quietly, opening the bottle. The words sounded false, wrong.

Feliciano had his eyes closed.

“And in all who live here,” he replied. Centuries of exposure to death and illness had left him well-versed in the Rite of Anointing the Sick.

“Purify me with hyssop, Lord, and I shall be clean of sin. Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.” Cristoforo wet his fingers, and drew the Sign of the Cross over his brother. “Have mercy on me, God, in your great kindness. Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit.”

“As it was in the beginning,” Feliciano said, voice dropping to a whisper. “Is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.”

“Purify me with hyssop, Lord, and I shall be clean of sin,” Cristoforo repeated, desperately trying to keep the shakiness he could feel creeping up on him out of his voice. He was a priest, he was the Church, he was administering the last rites to his brother who shouldn’t be dying Christmas morning. “Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.”

Feliciano bowed his head, and continued without waiting for his brother.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, it has been two weeks and three days since my last confession.”

The count was painfully accurate for Cristoforo.

“These are my sins- Lord, I have many, too many to count-”

“Feliciano-”

The kneeling man’s breath hitched.

“I have hated. I have sought vengeance and revenge, petty and otherwise. I have given myself over to thoughts of envy and malice and acted upon them in violation of Your will and law. I have been uncharitable, neglectful, and prideful. I have doubted You and presumed too much of Your love and mercy. I have used Your name for justification of immoral actions. I have lied and broken vows-”

Feliciano’s voice broke.

“I have broken vows and promises. I have murdered- strangers, friends, and family. I have assisted in murder; many, many times, knowingly and without remorse-”

He began to cry.

“I have treated with a demon- and I have loved a man.”

Cristoforo breathed in sharply and stared at his brother, stunned.

“Feliciano-” he whispered.

“I have loved _two_ men,” Feliciano plowed on, suppressing sobs. “And had one willingly in my bed and my home in violation of the Sacrament of Marriage-”

Feliciano groped at his finger and fumbled his ring off, reaching up with both hands to press it tightly into Cristoforo’s palm.

“Please,” he whispered. “ _Please,_ Cristoforo, he’s _terrible_ at emotions I _know_ he’s not religious but he _needs_ someone **_please_** I just want him to be _happy_ even if I’m not- if I can’t-”

Cristoforo placed his free hand on Feliciano’s head.

“Why am I doing this?” he sobbed. “I-I God I _know_ I’m unforgivable I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry please I don’t want anyone else to suffer-”

“ _No one_ is unforgiv-”

“I’ve _been_ in Hell, Cristoforo!” Feliciano raised his voice in anguished strain through the tears. “I’ve promised my soul to the demon _don’t you **tell** me _ that I’m _forgivable!_ ”

Cristoforo bent over and held his brother tightly, face buried in his hair, as the other shook and wept.

“Stay with your children tonight, Feliciano. Make sure they know you love them.”

He nodded mutely.

“The Act of Contrition,” he prompted after a moment, fighting his own tears.

“I-I-I-”

Feliciano swallowed some of his tears and began.

“O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins, because of Thy just punishments, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, Who are all-good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to sin no more and to avoid the near occasion of sin. Amen.”

“God, the Father of mercies,” Cristoforo whispered into his brother’s hair. “Through the death and resurrection of His Son has reconciled the world to Himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

He hugged Feliciano tightly for a moment and rocked him slightly, inhaling, trying to remember as much as he could of his brother’s presence.

He stood again, straight.

“Give thanks to the Lord for He is good.”

Feliciano closed his eyes again before speaking, without much conviction.

“For his mercy endures forever.”

Here, Cristoforo wavered. He had no Eucharist for the Viaticum, or oil to properly complete the Rite of Anointing the Sick.

He offered a quick, silent prayer of apology, a plea for God’s understanding.

“Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.”

If Feliciano had misgivings about proceeding to the end of the Rite, he never showed them.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name. Thy Kingdom come, Thy Will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us of our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. Lead us not into temptation-”

“But deliver us from evil,” Feliciano murmured.

“Save your servant,” Cristoforo begged.

“Who trusts in you, My God.”

It sounded like lies.

“Lord, send him aid from Your holy place.”

“And watch over him from Sion.”

“Let him find in You, Lord, a fortified tower.”

“In the face of the enemy.”

“Let the enemy have no power over him.”

_Prove him wrong, take him into Your Kingdom-_

“And the son of iniquity be powerless to harm him.”

“Lord, heed my prayer.”

_-show him the glory of Your love and mercy-_

“And let my cry be heard by You.”

“The Lord be with you.”

_-now and at the end._

“May He also be with you.”

* * *

_Feliciano could remember love, and that made the knowledge he would never have it again all the worse._

_“This is just a taste of your_ true _death,” the demon whispered to him; and then he was opening his eyes-_

* * *

“Get up.”

“Wha-”

Heinrich half-turned over in the bed he was sharing with his sister.

His father shook him again anyway.

“Get up,” Veneziano ordered, moving on to the next bed. “We’re leaving.”

* * *

Cristoforo hadn’t slept since being woken for Feliciano’s last rites, and had spent the night sitting slumped over the table, watching the candles flare out and hoping fervently for guidance.

He did not want his brother to die.

And he thought he had an outside chance at saving him.

In the hustle and confusion of Feliciano’s message sinking in, Cristoforo slid the book off the table and into his bag.

Quickly, he moved from the table and joined the commotion, going to check on Cassiel.

“Cass,” the Vatican said quietly, somewhat surprised that he hadn’t woken yet. Usually, he was a light sleeper. A touch on the arm did nothing.

“Get _up,_ Cassiel!” Giovanna half-snapped at her brother, shoving him.

Cassiel flailed for a moment as his equilibrium was disturbed, and then he sat up in the bed and looked around, seeming confused.

“We’re leaving,” Gianna told him.

“What?” he asked, looking at her.

“ _Zio_ Feli says we’re leaving,” she repeated, gesturing towards Veneziano.

“Gianna-” Cassiel said, tone betraying panic. “What did you just say?”

Cristoforo glanced between the two, and took a step sideways, completely out of Cassiel’s range of vision.

“Cassiel,” he said, and then louder. “Cassiel- I’m over here.”

Nothing. He just kept looking at Giovanna.

Cristoforo poked him in the back.

A harder poke, a pinch, he slid his hands in under Cassiel’s range of vision and dug his nails into the thick, sensitive muscle connecting his neck to his shoulders.

Still nothing.

 _“Feliciano!”_ he yelled.

Most of the room at least glanced over. Cassiel looked at them in confusion.

Feliciano looked at his brother in puzzlement, and, in demonstration, Cristoforo moved one hand, lined his fingers up with the soft, vulnerable area at the base of his skull, and pushed in hard.

It should have had the man jerking away, scrunching his shoulders up in instinct to protect himself- but it didn’t.

“What-” Gianna began to ask.

Cristoforo pushed Cassiel hard enough to physically move him and he jumped violently, jerking away sharply as he became aware of the other’s presence behind him for the first time.

Wordlessly, Romania handed the Vatican a small pad of paper and a pencil.

Cristoforo sat down on the bed next to Cassiel and began to write.

_You used magic and it had a price. It killed your nerve endings in your skin and took your hearing. There is a reason witchcraft is hateful to God, and this is why._

* * *

China had started be suspicious the moment he heard Veneziano proclaim that they were leaving, and it had only gotten stronger since that moment.

It grew with every step down the hidden stairs, bringing up the rear of the group, and bloomed into full-blown distrust when Feliciano violated everything he had ever said about escaping the House and turned left down the stairs to the first floor.

“Hey-!”

Yao didn’t know who raised the objection, but he knew even if no one else did that this was _not how this worked,_ it never had been, you couldn’t just _walk_ out the doors and the basement was completely off-limits-

He pushed his way to the top of the stairs just in time to see Feliciano take the step that had nearly killed his son the day before, and set foot on the ground floor.

Five strides took him to the front door.

Yao spared a sharp look for Cristoforo, standing next to him, on the reasonable grounds that, if Veneziano was planning something, the person most likely to be told was his brother.

The Vatican looked uneasy.

Feliciano opened the front door, and as people hurried past him down the stairs, China resolved to find out what was going on as soon as possible.

* * *

Ludwig stared in disbelief as the door of the House swung open easily.

_“Feliciano!”_

Lovino was on his feet and pressed up against the gate in an instant.

Ludwig stayed seated in the snow, short of breath, so dizzy with relief he was certain he would pass out at any moment. The other Nations crowded around but it was all he could do to stare and keep breathing.

Feliciano had the door open. They were coming out Latvia had unhooked the key from the wrought scrollwork on the gates and he and his son _stepped outside_ and into Montenegro’s waiting arms and then there was Romania with a heartbreaking cloth bundle and Cato falling against Romano’s chest and insisting that they get her husband to a hospital _now_ and Gianna leading Cassiel towards Prussia-

And his children.

_His children._

Germany was on his feet in an instant and reaching for Heinrich and Nia, arms and mind, and in a moment everyone was crying and giving kisses he was whispering _“I love you I love you I love you”_ while Heinrich clung to him and Nia tried to reach back to him through the Nation-citizen bond she was so sensitive to-

By the time he lifted his head and taken a step away from his children Sweden’s glasses had frozen over while he was busy half-squeezing the life out of Armas, and the Vatican was poking at the remains of the fire from the night before, and France was clutching Rémy’s shoulders and staring into his eyes like his son had never renounced his citizenship, and China and Veneziano were still standing on the other side of the gate.

* * *

_Lovino jerked awake on the gravel path leading to the front door of the House, still holding his brother’s hand. Next to him, the gravel shifted, and he lifted his head._

_Feliciano stared back at him, and blinked._

_In desperation and not a little disbelief, they reached for each other, Romano pulling the younger half into his lap and Veneziano clutched at him and_ screamed _into his chest, shaking uncontrollably._

 _“Feli, Feli,” Lovino told him hoarsely through his own tears. “It’s all right I’m here now you’re_ alive- _”_

_Feliciano shook his head mutely and Lovino grabbed his face, forcing his brother to look at him._

_Romano opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly he was remembering fire and brimstone and a loveless hopeless eternal darkness that shook him to his core._

_He stared at his brother, speechless._

_Feliciano kept eye contact for a moment before dropping his gaze to the ground between them and whispering hysterical prayers._

_For a few breaths neither moved, but then Lovino gripped Feliciano’s head in both hands and pressed their foreheads together, trying to speak a few times before succeeding._

_“One last time,” he promised quietly, voice shaking as he stroked Veneziano’s hair with his thumbs. “C-Come on, everyone else is already inside- we have to go save them before the demon gets them, come on-”_

_He pulled Feliciano to his feet and led him carefully, one last time, back into the House_.

* * *

The gate was wide open and inviting. Their friends and family were on the other side. Freedom was less than three steps away.

China and Veneziano eyed each other, each waiting for the other make the first move off the grounds.

China nodded, almost imperceptibly, towards the open gate.

“You first.”

Veneziano plastered a smile on his face and didn’t reply, tapping the point of his drawn rapier lightly against his leg.

China narrowed his eyes and moved to shift his weight.

Veneziano was faster.

The rapier point flicked up out across a feint a lunge and China staggered backward and tore his hand open on the gate as he grabbed it to steady himself but his dead weight pulled it shut and the snow was stained red as the lock _chink_ ed, tumblers falling into the locked position, and the key spent a few short moments in flight from the toss before burying itself in the snow of the House grounds, and Feliciano turned away, Yao’s life freezing in the cold Christmas air from a slit throat and a rapier impaled in his heart.

* * *

Cristoforo heard the gate close and the bubbling wheeze of a last breath and knew what had happened.

He tore his bag off his shoulders and fumbled for his matchbox. His fingers closed around it and he dropped the bag into the snow and stomped on it- once, twice, again- feeling the glass of the bottles he’d taken from the alchemy lab _crunch_ and shatter under his foot and he reached back into the bag and pulled out the book that Veneziano had written his name in and Romano had made about them both, the cursed thing that had caused so much pain and Cristoforo kicked the chemical-soaked bag of broken glass onto the embers of the previous night’s fire and the embers got brighter and the cloth smoked-

-but there was no flame.

* * *

_Most Sacred Heart of Jesus, I accept from Your hands whatever kind of death it may please You to send me this day-_

The gate crashed behind him as someone threw their weight at it.

 ** _“FELI!”_** Lovino screamed. **_“FELI GET THE FUCK BACK HERE!”_**

Feliciano stared hard at the front door of the House, feeling tears begin to freeze against his face.

**_“FELICIANO!”_ **

“I promised you’d see me again,” he whispered to himself. “And you did I’m sorry I know it wasn’t what you really wanted-”

**_“VEN—VENEXIA!”_ **

_-with all its pains, penalties, and sorrows; in reparation for all my sins-_

It hurt to hear his brother scream for him in Venetian.

He wouldn’t turn around he wouldn’t stop he could picture Lovino’s face all to clearly and the door got closer-

_-grant peace for those I leave behind, that they should not live forever in grief-_

Feliciano put his hand on the doorknob, the one that no longer bore a wedding ring, to turn it, and finished his prayer-

_-but smile in joy and love for the beauties of this world and Your eternal care._

The door opened.

Cristoforo lit a match.

The door closed.

The lit match fell.

* * *

The fire roared to life and Cristoforo grabbed the book by both covers and _tore._

The bindings split and the leather ripped apart and a few parchment pages fell into the fire and curled instantly into burning black-brown leaves and dissolved into white ash and the Vatican took a cover in each hand and held the half-books over the fire, pages fanning out and catching as they skimmed the top of the fire-

-and he let go.

The covers, leather curling at the edges from the noxious chemical fumes in the air, dropped into the heart of the fire and when they hit the air split with a screech and the fire _roared;_ burning three times brighter as a column of wind shot up from the glowing embers, tearing snow from the ground and pulling it up towards the sky, blinding everyone, and through the sudden fury came the explosive shatter of all the windows in the House blowing out at once as the infernal power controlling it was finally exorcised.

Everything settled into silence, the fire receding back to embers and the window shards raining down patter-patter into the snow on the other side of the still-locked gate.

Cristoforo took a deep, steadying breath. He pocketed the matchbox, closed his eyes, and took a step.

When he opened them, the gate was to his back and the way up the gravel path to the front door was clear, and safe.

* * *

Ludwig was-

He-

Frozen.

Feliciano’s back. Feliciano reaching the door; Feliciano stepping inside; the door closing- all frozen in his memory, unrelenting in their clarity and their anguish and Feliciano’s silence, Feliciano’s acceptance; and Ludwig wanted nothing more in that moment than for him to have said something, looked back, cried, paused, even for a second, so that he could think that it hadn’t been planned, that Feliciano hadn’t told him farewell on the phone because he _knew_ what would happen, that he or they or both of them had been singled out by a malicious fate or a vengeful universe and no one had gone willingly; because Ludwig was alone in the snow with a terrifyingly empty space in his heart and his life and there was nothing, nothing between him and the world, nothing to fall back on or come home to to smile so gently, sweetly, and say ‘I love you’-

The Vatican was on the other side of the gate.

He- He’d stepped through-

Ludwig found the voice he’d lost when China had fallen dead in the snow because if the Vatican could cross the boundary of the House grounds like that then he was still a Nation inside and-

 _“FELICIANO!”_ he yelled, forcing himself to the other side of the gate and shoving Cristoforo aside unapologetically because they were Nations here now, not humans, and Feliciano had stepped into that doorway but maybe just maybe oh please let it be that Veneziano had stepped out the other side.

* * *

Cristoforo slipped past the door and walked straight into the blood to kneel, unheeding the filth and defilement, on floor next to Ludwig.

He was trembling, shaking, and when Cristoforo tried to pry his arms apart, Ludwig gripped the corpse tighter and screamed in wordless anguish against what was left of Feliciano’s chest.

“Ludwig,” he said quietly. “Ludwig, let me see.”

“There’s nothing to see,” Ludwig snapped back, voice rough with tears.

“We don’t know if he died human and will stay like this, or if he died a Nation and will come back to us. _Let me see._ ”

 Ludwig turned his head slightly and there was just enough desperate hope in what expression he could see that it hurt to think of how fragile it truly was.

Cristoforo gently slipped a hand between them and moved Ludwig up and away slightly so he could take a better look at the extent of the damage. After a few long moments of staring, his hands moved to grasp his hopefully-unwidowed brother-in-law by the arms.

“Up,” the Vatican ordered, beginning to rise. “ _Up,_ come.”

Germany followed obediently, gaze now locked on the other; the plea of _‘fix him’_ clear despite his silence.

Cristoforo wanted nothing more than to promise he could.

* * *

There was blood in the halls of the Holy See.

Pope Honorius fought to keep his eyes forward as he followed the shaken Swiss Guard who had brought him word of their missing Nation’s ghastly reappearance. They halted at the Vatican’s door and Honorius dismissed the guard, who left as quickly as he could.

The door opened quietly and Honorius looked in, unacknowledged for the moment as the Vatican bent over his bed, carefully dabbing blessed oil onto the still figure atop the sheets. A small, bare Eucharist plate sat close at hand on the nightstand, the only bright spot in the silent scene around the bed.

Cristoforo finished with the oil and wiped his hands off on a cloth, placing the oil bottle next to the plate before turning.

Honorius had a few moments’ glimpse of Veneziano’s face and unclothed torso, wrapped tightly in layer upon layer of cloth bandages, blood slowly seeping through into sight, before Cristoforo was in the doorway, arms resting on the frame, blocking his view.

The Pope had to think a moment before finding something to say.

“We missed you at Christmas mass, Christophorus.”

“I know.”

“You-”

“We had business to attend to, Your Holiness.”

“We?”

Cristoforo tipped his head down so slightly the movement couldn’t even be considered a nod.

“Cristino.”

Romano appeared suddenly over the Vatican’s shoulder.

“A moment, brother,” he replied, half-looking over his shoulder before returning his attention to the Pope and take a deep, even breath.

“It is our business. Please leave us to it.”

The Vatican took half a step back and a put a hand on the door, beginning to push it shut.

“ _Sanctā Sede_.”

Cristoforo’s grip on the half-closed door tightened at the commanding tone in his superior’s voice.

“There is evil in this world, Your Holiness; evil not from men’s hearts turned willingly from God or through ignorance of how their actions do the same; but from the perversion of His Holy works. This evil does not appear often; but when it does, and where we find it, we do our very best to keep it from harming the people of this world.”

* * *

The door closed, but Lovino just kept gently stroking Feliciano’s hair, watching his face intently for any sign of life. The headboard was pressing uncomfortably against his spine, and the leg he was sitting on was going numb, but he would wait as long as he had to to learn exactly what his brother’s fate was.

Ludwig was kneeling on the floor on the other side of the bed, just within Lovino’s range of sight. He had one arm on the bed, head resting atop it, fingers curled around Feliciano’s limp hand and his thumb pressed against the pulse point in his wrist, waiting for a beat.

Cristoforo returned to the nightstand to put the damp cloth and oil bottle on the Eucharist plate.

“Lovino,” he said quietly, lifting the plate off the old wood. “Vasco is in Switzerland.”

“He’s in Barcelona,” Lovino said. “Antonio found a priest and land on his estate.”

“You-”

“Feliciano first,” he said firmly. “I can go see Vasco later with my- other children.”

Cristoforo sighed slightly and went to stow away the plate and oil.

“Where’s his wedding ring?”

The Vatican froze.

Ludwig spoke again, softly, staring at the hand in his grasp.

“Feli…”

Romano met Cristoforo’s eyes and Cristoforo set the plate down on his desk.

He walked silently over to Ludwig and placed a hand gently on his back, the other going to his pocket.

Kneeling down next to him, Cristoforo pulled out the ring his brother had given him too early that morning and placed it in Ludwig’s free hand, keeping it between their palms.

“He knew what he would do this morning, Ludwig. He came to me before anyone else woke to give his final confession. He-”

Would not lie, would not run the risk of hiding the truth only for it to creep out later, slowly, poisoning everything.

“Feliciano renounced his love for you.”

Ludwig opened his mouth as though to ask a question but there was no sound, just a slowly-dawning silent terror. He yanked his hand from Cristoforo’s and jammed the ring back on Feliciano’s finger, taking the hand in both of his and pressing it to his lips.

“I love you _Spatzi_ **_please-_** ”

* * *

Silence reigned in Switzerland as darkness fell, from the hospital where Cato refused to answer the doctor’s questions, lumbering heavily across the evening town to the Sebastian’s living room where Europe slumped drowning their sorrows on this Christmas Day eve and then down the hallway, to where Liechtenstein placed quiet calls of lies and disinformation to the appropriate authorities before lurking through the shadows up the stairwell where nightmares grew in the dreams of mortals.

Across Spain it hung, heavy over a new-turned plot of land at the apex of a gentle slope where Antonio sat in vigil, remembering as the lights of the distant city flickered on and off as the traffic flow changed for the nightlife.

It was thick in the Holy See where Cristoforo slumped in a stuffed chair, chin on chest, arms hanging off the sides; and Ludwig still knelt locked in place while he slept; and Lovino tore his eyes from the shadows-within-shadows across the room to look down into Feliciano’s eyes, open, turned towards him, lips parted to break the silence with soft breathing as he reached upwards, searching; and Lovino caught his hand and held it to his cheek as he bent down to kiss his brother’s forehead and lie down beside him in the quiet night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Axis, Allies, Canada, Spain, and Romano get stuck in a terrifyingly haunted house. They are continuously attacked by a monster, called ‘the Thing' in-game. While in this house, they are human- if they die, they are dead. Thankfully (not at all) there is a journal that enables the bearer to turn back time and start over; everyone loses their memories of the previous ‘time loop’ except for the person who turns back time. Italy is the bearer of the journal, but it turns out that England, with his magic, can also mess with time. The other Nations (with the mysterious exception of Germany) can get their memories back by breaking the clocks in the house, which also cuts down on the time screwiness going on. Eventually everyone figures out what’s been going on, mostly because they convince Italy to tell them, and then work on actively escaping the house, setting up base in a ‘safe room’ disguised a closet.
> 
> At the end of 17.2, Spain and Romano are stuck in a past time loop with an uncooperative England, England from the current time loop is minus his magic and his sight, Russia has been having highly suspicious phone calls and is going to another part of the house with China to ‘solve a riddle’, and Italy’s heart has stopped and he is either having a near-death experience, hallucinating, or in the afterlife with what may or may not actually be the Holy Roman Empire.


	18. 2047: January

It was cold outside for Naples, but Lovino had a cup of hot coffee and that was all he really needed at the moment.

Sicily sat in the chair next to him, her own coffee in hand, and watched the café traffic around them.

“Thank you for getting me out of the house,” Romano muttered into his coffee.

“I told you,” Vespasiana said. “You needed a distraction.”

The villa on the hill over the city was too heavy, too dark, to full of memories of laughing children and the ever-present specter of Greece, dead or sleeping, on the couch in the front room. The city was loud and bright and colorful and _new;_ Lovino’s people were here and it was hard to be fatalistic surrounded by their life.

In the café he could hear the faint hum of the heating system and the coffee brewers gently laid the lingering scent of roasted beans over the sweetness of baked pastries. The bell on the door tinkled every so often, just far enough on the right side of tinny not to be annoying, and the rush of colder air that accompanied it was a pleasant relief from the air inside the building.

The bell tinkled again, and destroyed the relaxed atmosphere.

Romano snapped his head up to stare in fury at the man who entered, the weight of laws and edicts and fear spanning back centuries fueling the urge to get out of his chair and barrel across the room and tear the life out of the person standing unconcernedly across the room, scanning the customers.

Sicily glanced at her brother, the man, and then back at her brother. Under the table, she slipped a hand onto his knee.

A quick series of three taps ring-pointer-middle fingers.

A silent question.

_Organized crime?_

A quick glance towards her.

Hand on the table, palm sideways, pinky against the wood.

Hand clenches to fist.

Vespasiana rested both arms on the table and leaned over towards him, pretending to read the menu.

“Alfeo Bottegante,” he whispered.

Romano watched Bottegante’s movement across the room as Sicily kept an eye on the door, waiting for the associates to show up.

“Lovino,” she hissed. “It’s your _son!_ ”

* * *

There was a knock on the door. It was Ásdís’s first reaction to ignore it, and let the man sitting across from her at Wales’s kitchen table deal with whomever the guest was, but at the second knock she remembered why she couldn’t and stood.

“Hello!” Serafina DiAngeli greeted her brightly when the door opened, and swept past her into the house uninvited. “Oh my, this is a beautiful home you have!”

“Thank you,” Ásdís said, mentally weighing the pros and cons of kicking their only other financier out of the house. “But it’s not mine. Ca- Mr. Navin rents rooms here.”

“Does he really?” Serafina asked, poking around on the shelves in the foyer bookcase.

“Wh-”

“Oh! Mr. Navin!” Serafina called, noticing Cassiel, seated facing away from her in the kitchen.

Ásdís moved to intercept her before she reached the kitchen, but the other woman was closer.

“Mr. Navin, Mr. Navin, you never called-”

She put a hand on his shoulder and got no response.

“Mr. Navin-”

A tiny shift into the man’s range of vision and Cassiel jumped violently, shoving her away instantly, the force enough to send Serafina stumbling to catch herself against the wall and him tumbling, flailing for balance, onto the floor, the chair crashing atop his legs.

Asdis grabbed Serafina by the arm and steered her firmly into the seat she herself had vacated a minute earlier.

“Around Christmas he was hospitalized for a sudden-onset chronic degenerative central nervous system disorder.”

The lie rolled easily, effortlessly off her tongue, weighted with credibility and sincerity by years of acting jobs.

“The doctors aren’t sure what it is exactly, but it’s likely genetic. He can’t hear and has completely lost any sensations of touch. You just have to be careful not to startle him.”

“Oh no!” Serafina said, looking horrified. Cassiel picked himself up off the floor, righted the chair with a too-forceful _slam_ , and sat down again, looking at the woman sitting across from him in confusion.

Ásdís slid a paper pad and pencil on the table over to her.

“So why are you here, Ms. DiAngeli?”

* * *

_Bee-de-de_

_Bee-de-de_

It was mid-morning and Armas was alone in his father’s Stockholm house, cleaning, when he closed the dishwasher and picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

An automated voice answered him.

_"This is an international collect call from Helsingin vankila. If you accept this call you agree to this conversation being monitored and subject to termination at any time previous by our corrections officers at their discretion. To accept this collect call, press 1.’_

Armas spent a moment with his finger hovering over the ‘1’. He knew exactly who was calling.

_Beep_

“ _Far_?” a man asked hesitantly.

“It’s Armas, Eluf,” his brother answered, stomach roiling. He settled his elbows on the counter to brace himself. “What do you want?”

“Could you come?” Eluf asked quietly. “You and _Far_ and _Isa_ \- could you all come to see me, in here?”

Armas stared hard at the wall in front of him.

* * *

Tai left Eun in the usual café and headed back to his grandfather’s house, trying to keep names straight. Eun’s Korean exchange friends had started tagging along on his daily breaks to use the hacked wifi, and today they had filled up two whole booths and monopolized the barista, getting incessant coffee refills and buying half the baked goods on display to engage in a sugar-fueled discussion of something complicated-sounding in Korean, brandishing paper print-outs and scribbling out notes. Eun had tried to keep up with the translating in the beginning, managing a few sentences about an inter-university student group, but got too caught up in the discussion to really pay much attention to him.

He’d managed to amuse himself on his phone for a while, but sitting there while everyone else talked in a language he didn’t know was high up there on Tai’s list of uncomfortable situations, so after a half-hour or so he relieved a little of the pressure on the barista and slipped out the door.

Walking the streets of Beijing wasn’t very helpful for trying to match names to faces he’d barely seen and hadn’t talked to, but he kept trying anyway. There had been… ten, fifteen of them?

He shook his head as he turned down the alley that his fire escape emptied down into and started climbing. The only hope for it was for the people who showed up today to come back in smaller groups, and hold a conversation in a language he could understand.

The fire escape’s rattling faded away when Tai stopped in front of his window. A quick moment’s work to pull out the cloth he’d been using to block any drafts from the barely-open window let him wedge his fingers between the sill and frame and push upwards, slowly, wiggling the wood slightly as the window jammed.

A hand curled around the bottom of the window from the inside and shoved upwards, tearing the window from Tai’s hands.

He looked up through the glass to China’s scowl. His grandfather pointed further inside the room.

Tai climbed through the window sat himself down on the far side of the bed.

"Where have you been?” China demanded.

“In town.”

 _“Clearly,”_ Yao replied. “Where?”

“I don’t have to tell you,” Tai sulked.

“Yes, you do. _I_ am responsible for your safety, and that is not possible if I don’t know where you _are._ ”

“I met some college students, _all right?_ ” Tai half-snapped, deliberately leaving out the incredibly illegal hacked wifi. “I go see them when they take their study break and we talk!”

“About what? _Where?_ ”

Inspiration hit.

“ _I_ don’t see why _I_ have to tell _you_ when _you_ don’t tell _me_ what _you_ get up to.”

_“Tai-”_

“I know better than to believe you when you say you left over Christmas because _Babà_ and _Tio_ Vasco _‘got mauled by a **bear** ’_,” Tai told him. “When you left you said you had _‘business’_. If it was because _Mamma_ called to say they were hurt you would have told me, so the call was about something else; and you were gone for _three days!_ You didn’t call or _anything!_ If you were going to spend the night at the hospital then you would have _called_ or come to get me or _taken me with you_ , because that’s _my family!_ ”

They held a staring match for a moment before Yao broke it, and walked out.

“Told you,” Tai muttered into his pillow after he left.

* * *

Teodozja did her best to manage holding Roksana and locking Poland’s door behind her. It wasn’t easy in the gloves she wore against the Warsaw winter cold, but she managed, and got on the nearest bus line, doing her best not to notice the looks a teenage mother was afforded in public.

She got off in a familiar residential neighborhood and walked the rest of the way, ending at a house she’d known well once, and rang the doorbell.

Grażyna Król answered.

“I-” Dosia started, feeling a little intimidated and rather uncertain about how, exactly, to say the things she wanted to. “I… needed to get away from _Pan Polska_ for a little while.”

Grażyna let her in without a moment’s hesitation.

“Mieszko is still in school,” she said, closing the door. She turned to look at Dosia again, frowning disapprovingly. “He didn’t even get you a babysitter?”

Dosia held Roksana tighter.

“I didn’t want to leave her with a stranger.”

Grażyna took her to the kitchen and sat her down.

“You’re not in school-”

“ _Pan Polska_ has been teaching me.”

“Hm.”

Her tone said exactly what she thought of _that._

The woman poured her some of the hot chocolate she’d had going already on the stove.

“And how has that been going?”

“Wh-”

“The lessons? He’s taken time out from being Poland to teach you, then?”

“No,” Dosia admitted. “He does some after work and more on the weekends.”

“And he keeps a schedule?” Grażyna asked, sitting at the table across from her with her own cup of chocolate.

“No, he doesn’t always have time after work because he gets home late, but he brought books for me to look at-”

Grażyna snorted.

“You should be in _school,_ ” she insisted. “I work from home, I can watch-”

She had to pause and think a moment, trying to remember.

“-Roksana. You can come pick her up after school, or I can drop her off for dinner, or….”

They settled into awkward silence.

“Thank you, _Pani_ Król,” Teodozja said after a minute or so. “But I don’t think-”

She shook her head a little, trying to get her thoughts in order.

“I just came here to ask _why_ you think the way you do about your father.”

* * *

“Irene.”

She’d fallen asleep sitting up, and now it hurt.

“Irene.”

She wasn’t at home; Eglantine-

_Eglantine._

Irene awoke properly to Arthur shaking her lightly. The train had stopped, and was settling on its wheels.

“We’re here, Irene,” he told her.

She glanced out the window as he gathered his things. There was nothing but heathland on this side of the tracks.

“Here.”

Irene looked over at him. Her guide was holding out a black knit wool coat.

“But-”

“It was a Honalee sheep,” Arthur said, the blanket he’d made from the same three jars of black wool folded on the seat behind him and the knitted cloak hanging around his shoulders. “It doesn’t have to make sense.”

Irene took the coat gingerly, wary of the likely-magically garment. She pulled it on as Arthur led them off the train and onto the station platform, just as bare and wooden as the one they’d entered the train from.

Morningtown was spread out on the other side, winding cobbled streets of half-timbered houses like an idealized medieval town. There were mountains in the distance, half-hiding the rising sun.

Arthur swung the bag over his shoulder, bunching the cloak up around his neck.

“Let’s get going, then,” he said, and paused. “Just don’t stare.”

* * *

His cell phone was buzzing against the table, screen lighting up the kitchen gloom. It had been going off at intervals for days.

He’d been considering letting the battery die, but-

 _‘Ludwig Beilschmidt’_ popped up on the screen again, and Feliciano dismissed it again.

He didn’t want to hear the questions, the _‘Why did you renounce me?’_ , _‘How could you do that?’_ , _‘Don’t you love me?’_ ; it was too much to think about, and The Secret, his secret-

_I am going to Hell_

It was too big to say and too painful to tell and never _ever_ to Ludwig; better for one of them to die, for Ludwig to find another love on Earth to keep for eternity or to reach Heaven (oh please oh please God let him in _please_ ) happy, never with any doubts or pain or worry.

Better for them, for Ludwig- he’d _known_ how he’d end up for decades, known when he took Ludwig’s first kiss and gave him his first _‘I love you’_ ; known when Ludwig first smiled at him, drunk on joy with a disbelieving hope shining through his eyes as he really, truly, _understood_ how much Feliciano had meant it.

And then he’d put The Secret out of his head, because Ludwig’s quiet love was all he’d ever wanted; and to be the reason Ludwig never smiled like that again after a lifetime of fear and hate and work and broken dreams and always, always just trudging along, trying to make it through-

Too cruel.

It had been easy to put the fire and brimstone he couldn’t forget now out of his head when there was a relationship to build and then a human life to cope with, and Zell left to a parent’s confidence in their government and a marriage they could legally have and Nia and Heinrich and just _life-_

But now reality had intervened, and his children would die, and he had to confront the fact that he _didn’t_ have forever to love; not really.

Feliciano had nearly forgotten just what state his soul was in; and now that he’d been reminded, he couldn’t forget again. If he did it would come back, and then he’d have to confront it when he was deeper into a relationship he’d let go too far already, and

This is was a good breaking point.

Ludwig called again, and the phone beeped to say it was on its dregs; and Feliciano let it die, because a clean break was best and it wasn’t like before, Ludwig had friends now who could help him through whatever troubles he had.

He didn’t need Feliciano, not really, not like that.

He could survive.

He’d get better.

(And maybe God would forgive the- _him, him,_ forgive Ludwig; he was unforgivable he couldn’t forget that this time)

* * *

“Armas,” Eluf said nervously. “Armas, if you don’t say something they’re going to cut the connecti-”

 _"Shut **up,** ”_ Armas snarled at him. “Whoever said we _wanted_ to hear from you in the _first_ place?”

“Ar-”

“Do you have _any_ idea how much you’ve hurt _Isa_? Do you know how long we had to hear him blame himselffor _you?_ ”

“I-”

“Over a _year_ you’ve been in that prison and _now_ you decide to call? It’s nine seventeen here and you know why I’m at _Far_ ’s house this time in the morning? I can’t hold a _job_ because of what you did! I had to quit my old one because I couldn’t stand the looks! Background checks on my name and my resume turn up _you_ , which means _I_ get passed over! I had to move back in here because I wasn’t going to make any rent money!”

“ _Bror_ -”

" _Murderer!”_ Armas spat. “ _Don’t_ call me _brother;_ and _don’t call us again!_ ”

 _"Armas!”_ Eluf yelled frantically through the phone. “Armas at least _tell_ them I called-”

Armas hung up.

* * *

Alfeo Bottegante could command any room as though he owned it; and knew this. It was clear in the way he strode across the café, in the way glanced merely a moment at the empty table by the wall before selecting his chair, in the way that a single look was all that he needed to silently tell Nicodemo- Lovino’s _own son_ \- which chair to pull out for the woman Romano recognized as Bottegante’s daughter, in the looks he pointedly did _not_ give those seated nearby.

Across the Italian Nations’ table, Sicily had an intensely similar look as she searched the faces of Bottegante’s associates, hunting for the instinctual recognition of a Nation seeing one of their citizens. If the associates noticed, they didn’t show it.

Romano clenched his hands under the table and tried to keep the anger down, forcing himself to sort through what was the uneasy Neapolitans in the café; what was the law-backed wrath of _Repubblica italiana, romano_ ; and what was Lovino Agresta Vargas, enraged parent and furious citizen who’d had more than his fill of organized crime over the centuries.

Vespasiana determined to her satisfaction that none of the _camorristi_ were Sicilian loans and sat back in her seat. She looked over at Lovino with raised eyebrows.

_What now?_

Lovino straightened his hands a finger at a time, concentrating on the feeling of muscles and tendons stretching, then relaxing, instead of the anger he’d determined was completely his own.

It was a good question.

There were a few ways this could go- the first, where he and Vespasiana burst from their seats and slaughtered the _camorristi_ , was definitely the most emotionally satisfying, but was completely out of the picture.

The second was that he and Vespasiana waited for Nicodemo to notice them; to glance about and go white at seeing them sitting, watching, judging.

But Lovino wanted a _confrontation._ He wanted anger and hurt and yelling and he wanted _revenge_ , at least a little, for all the years he’d had to put up with the Camorra and their business. Their business which now included his _son-_ and for the first time Lovino understood a little of how France must have felt, when Rèmy renounced him, because just _seeing_ Nicodemo sitting with the Bottegantes felt like the worst betrayal he’d ever been subjected to.

One of them had to stand, to do something to attract attention.

He glanced at Sicily, who crossed her arms.

_He’s your son._

So Lovino inhaled once, deeply, considered standing; and then decided that Alfeo Bottegante would _not_ get to sit while he stood, he wouldn’t give a gangster the position of power that suggested, and leaned back in his chair instead, forcing ease into his body language.

_“Nicodemo Terenzio Agresta Fernandez.”_

* * *

 “You want to know why I don’t speak to my father any longer?” Grażyna asked, putting her cup down. “It’s not that he’s a terrible person- it’s that he’s not a _person_ at all.”

Teodozja opened her mouth, looking a little shocked.

“Let me finish first,” Grażyna requested.

The girl looked unhappy, but didn’t say anything.

Grażyna stared at her solemnly for a few moments, until the silence was almost uncomfortable.

“Do you know how Nations work?” she asked. “They are the sum of their people. They think what their citizens think, feel what they feel. They act on the orders of their governments. Their habits and personalities and ideals and morals change with both. Yet somehow they think they can have lives and identities separate from everything they are. They think they can be human when they are the furthest thing from. Humans can’t live hundreds of years, or disregard the rules of physics, or look at person and know their entire life story.”

She stopped there and rested her head briefly in one hand.

“Humans can’t stare you down until you are _consumed_ heart and mind by them, and can think to do nothing but obey their orders. They can’t spend a moment to focus and hear your thoughts as though they were their own; and they can’t force emotions on you.”

Dosia watched her in trepidation.

“ _Pani_ Król-”

“Humans don’t treat death as an inconvenience; something barely worth thinking about because it doesn’t last for them. The death of one person matters little, there are hundreds of thousands more replace them; but a few thousand, a million or so here and there is a disaster because it threatens _them_ and _their_ survival and _their_ reputations and _their_ politics and _their_ completely misguided sense of self-autonomy.

There are plenty of people who would say that, with all the things they can do, Nations are more than human. But they _can’t_ be; they were never human to begin with and they don’t think the same way and they don’t act the same way. They don’t even _exist_ the same way. All any living thing needs for its existence is itself. They need parents to start a life and not having food or water can end it; but to exist they only need their mind and their soul. Nations are inherently, inexorably dependent on humanity to have any meaning. They are created from a shared identity and are discarded to die when the identity is.”

Dosia focused on the tabletop.

“That’s-”

“Nations are _less_ than human,” Grażyna told her. “They are _puppets_ \- shells of an idea that have so much real humanity poured into them that they can mimic their creators almost flawlessly. They have no true free will, no original thoughts or feelings; just the semblance of them that comes from the conflict between the thousands of different viewpoints they can never escape from and the irrationality and unpredictability of the humans that make them.”

“But- they… they have _friends,_ and _siblings,_ and _children-_ ”

“Nation friends and siblings they have good political relations with or represent some other part of the same people they do. Human friends and children they can’t _help_ but love and care for because to do otherwise would be an attack on the foundation of their existence.”

Grażyna sighed.

“I suppose that Poland won’t treat you _badly,_ ” she admitted. “You’re a Polish citizen; and he does seem to be trying. If you really want to stay with him, I won’t try and make you not.”

Her expression and tone dropped suddenly, into an almost hard warning.

“Just don’t do what I did, and expect humanity where there is none.”

* * *

Hong Kong the city was loud.

It was always loud- loud with the traffic and the talking and business of seven million people living; loud in the houses and the streets and the shops and the skyscrapers, the back alleys and high-rises.

Today, though, the shops and houses and offices and apartments and colleges were quieter- not silent, _never_ silent-

-and the cars and trucks and bicycles and buses and trains ran off-schedule and angry, detouring and honking-

-because the people were in the streets, the students and the businesspeople and the workers and the caretakers, marching, clogging the arteries of their city because if they couldn’t have their city the way they knew it worked and the way they wanted to run it, Beijing couldn’t have it their way either, and they could come with tanks and soldiers if they _really_ wanted to but _the world was watching;_ because Hong Kong had made itself a trade center and there was too much money and too many investments, too much politics (they hoped) for Beijing to come down and force _anything._

And Hong Kong the Nation marched with them; for them; and felt the ties binding him to China slip and unravel further every moment.

* * *

Gilbert had made it a habit to show up at his brother’s office around lunchtime; just to make sure that he _did_ actually eat something, and to help out with any work that could keep him past the time he was usually home.

They had an optimal household schedule that had been in effect since the Reunification, with only slight modifications to accommodate the arrival of children.

Morning was personal time. Ludwig and Gilbert got up for breakfast together and any physical workouts they felt like or had time to do. Ludwig went to work. Gilbert went off and did whatever he wanted; then stopped an hour before lunch to clean up, buy or make food, and take it into the office. Lunch was an hour of talking and _no work._ After lunch was work; either both of them together in the office, or Ludwig at the office and Gilbert at home to clean and repair whatever needed it. Dinner was a family affair. After dinner was clean-up together, and then the rest of the night was spent in company if they felt like it or alone if they didn’t. No work was to follow _anyone_ home.

Ludwig didn’t even have the decency to look contrite at the pile of folders he’d brought from his office.

“What are _those?_ ” Gilbert asked disdainfully, more to emphasize the point than for an answer.

“Work,” Ludwig muttered, and tried to go past him to the home office upstairs. Gilbert just moved to block him and tried to snatch the folders away.

“Lutz we have _rules_ about this-”

“But I have to have them done for tomorrow-”

“And what was so important _all day_ that you couldn’t get _that_ done?”

When Ludwig looked away, face tightening, Gilbert had his answer. He took the folders and dropped them on the hall table.

“Give me your phone.”

“Gil-”

“If he hasn’t called you back yet he’s not going to do it fucking now. Give me your phone, then go sit and I’ll make us some hot chocolate.”

His brother handed over his phone and went into the living room. Gilbert propped the mobile against the backsplash on the kitchen counter while he heated the water, thumbing through the screens-long list of calls that had gone unconnected. Disgusted, he got his own phone and typed in a number one-handed, getting the chocolate powder with the other.

At least _someone_ in Italy was still answering German calls.

“ _Chi parla_?”

“Do me a favor and hit your brother until he picks up his phone.”

“I don’t have to do _shit_ for you _get the fuck off my line._ ”

“Well, considering your brother hasn’t spoken to _his own husband_ in almost a _month_ now, yeah, somebody _does_ have to do shit to make up for it.”

“Feliciano doesn’t have to do a damn thing he doesn’t want to and I’m not responsible for it!”

“So get him to return Lutz’s calls!”

“If he doesn’t want to speak to his husband that’s his business!”

“So why the fuck won’t he-”

The line went dead on him and Gilbert glared at the phone. The water was almost heated, so he turned the stove down and used one of his preset numbers this time while he got mugs and marshmallows.

“Hey Kit.”

“Gilbert.”

“So are you going to tell me why Feliciano won’t pick up his phone or am I going to have to call even _more_ of your side of the family? ‘Cause I’m not sure Lutz can hold up under the silent treatment much longer. Whatever they argued about, it had better be-”

“They didn’t argue,” the Vatican told him. “At least, I don’t believe they have.”

“They-”

“Ludwig hasn’t mentioned to you what… happened?”

Gilbert turned the stove off and poured the water.

“Kit. I know you’ve got your whole _‘no disclosure’_ thing going but unless you took it under confidence can you _please_ tell me why Feliciano won’t speak to him?”

The line was silent for a few moments, and Prussia was trying to come up with a way to tell Cristoforo that it was seriously okay if he couldn’t say anything, if Ludwig knew what was possibly going on he could just press for more detail- 

“Feliciano- he thought he would die, and he renounced his relationship with Ludwig to God. I believe he may be trying to stay true to his confession.”

Gilbert was speechless.

“Prussia?”

“Kit,” he said evenly. “I am really, really fucking pissed at your brother right now; and angry at myself for that because seriously, I was a monastic state and it kind of runs _completely_ counter to everything my countries ever were to get mad at somebody for trying to do right by God. But I am _really really pissed._ ”

“Would you like me to call back later?”

“Yeah, that would awesome. Thanks Kit.”

He hung up and took the hot chocolate out to the living room.

* * *

Irene was doing her best to follow orders and not stare, but Morningtown made it hard to do that.

If Beatrix Potter’s children’s book illustrations had come to life- this was it. She followed Mr. Kirkland’s lead and stepped aside to let a buggy coach pass in the street, expending quite a bit of willpower to avoid looking at the giant bugs that were drawing the coach in lieu of horses.

The driver was a frog in a frock.

The two passengers were a squirrel couple, dressed in frilly lacy skirted contraptions in complementary pastel colors and equally elaborate bonnets. They chittered behind their paws as they passed the two of them in the street. It sounded like giggling.

Arthur stepped back down onto the road once the coach had passed. Irene made to follow him, but he gestured for her to stay on the slightly-raised walkway. They continued through the center of town, Irene settling for looking at the ivy-covered stone buildings and handpainted shop signs instead of their residents and clientele.

They passed the village and exited into hedged fields, carefully-manicured versions of the sheepfold and rolling meadows at the top of the cliffs the evening before.

“Are… we the only humans here?” Irene asked uncomfortably.

Arthur stepped over a puddle.

“You and I- and Eglantine- are unique amongst those in this place, yes.”

They passed an overgrown gate barring a path to a large pond and Arthur rapped on the wood.

“Hello to the Pond!”

A white mass appeared from under the water, and a duck in a straw dockman’s hat and a bowtie waddled up the path from the pond to them.

Arthur bowed.

“Good day to you, Mr. Wattlemoor.”

The duck bowed back.

“And a good day to you, Mr. Kirkland. How agreeable to see you again; and in the company of a young lady as well.”

Irene felt like she had nearly jumped out of her skin, and this time, couldn’t help but _stare._

A _duck-_

“Would you mind informing me if Mrs. Twitchit has changed residencies recently?”

“No, no, she still lives just down the lane in Lavender Cottage. Her latest litter has moved on though, so the grounds are quiet and cleanly for once!”

“Thank you very much Mr. Wattlemoor; I’m terribly sorry to have interrupted your bruncheon.”

“Not at all, Mr. Kirkland. As I said, it is agreeable to see you again in Morningtown. Pleasant travels be with you.”

Mr. Wattlemoor ambled off back to the pond, and Arthur had to physically pull Irene a few steps further down the road before she started to walk on her own again.

“Try not to look so shocked,” he told her. “They’re much too polite to comment on it, but they _do_ notice.”

“This- Mrs. Twitchit-” Irene began faintly.

“Mrs. Tabitha Twitchit is one of the finest ladies I have ever had the pleasure of associating with. And, depending on what news she has for us, we may be staying overnight with her.”

* * *

Nicodemo’s blood ran cold at the sound of his father’s voice behind him.

It had been bad enough this morning when Diana had called him over breakfast to tell him that her father had finally found out she was seeing someone outside the families, that it was serious, and that they _were_ going to have lunch together this afternoon.

It had been bad enough getting together in the first place, and deciding to stay even though he’d _known,_ without a shadow of a doubt the entire time, who her father was and what his own would have to say about it.

And now his father was _going_ to have his say about it- in a public café, in front of Neapolitans, in full view of all the camorristi present _including the man in charge._

 _“What do you think you’re doing?”_ his father demanded. _“With **them.** ”_

Nico looked guiltily over at Diana and scooted his chair around slightly, managing to avoid looking at her father.

“I’m meeting my girlfriend’s family,” he mumbled.

“Your _girlfriend._ ”

Nico flinched.

“Yes, _signore_.”

“Well,” his aunt said dryly. “ _This_ is news to _us._ ”

“Nico?” Diana asked, sounding concerned.

He was suddenly acutely aware of how the entire café had fallen silent, the human patrons frozen, fearful of what they might witness.

Alfeo Bottegante turned in his chair and eyed Romano coolly.

“I don’t believe we’ve met, _signore_.”

Romano narrowed his eyes at him.

“Lovino Agresta.”

Bottegante inclined his head in Sicily’s direction.

“ _Signora_ -”

“Vespasiana Marconi,” she answered, falling easily into the grace and cool distance of the high-class lady she had never really stopped being, even after the Unification and the dissolution of the monarchy. She gestured with one hand to Romano. “My ex-husband.”

Nico had the sudden feeling that things were going to go very bad, very fast.

“ _Zia_ Spas-”

“Silence.”

He obeyed.

“You were raised _better_ than this,” Romano hissed at him, completely ignoring the _camorristi_. “What would your _father_ think?”

“ _Papá_ -”

“If I told him what I am seeing now it would break his heart.”

“I-”

“There is _nothing_ you can say to excuse keeping the company of _criminals._ ”

Around them, there was a slight, sinister shifting of weight amongst the associates.

Bottegante put on a pleasantly-faked smile.

The café held its breath.

“ _Signor_ Agresta-”

 _“Don’t **interrupt**_ _me when I’m speaking to my **nephew.** ”_

Nico felt as though his father had destroyed everything, right before his eyes.

“I- I love Diana,” he just managed to say, voice tight from hurt, mind reeling.

“Love is _nothing_ compared to _morality_ and _principles!_ ” his father spat at him.

And Nico knew, in that moment, that it would be a very, very long time- if ever- that he and his father were on speaking terms.

“I-”

He should be grateful, he told himself, that at least his father hadn’t disowned him entirely.

“No- _Zio_ Vino.”

 

Berwald came home to his woodworking shop tools and supplies spread out on a tarp on the living room floor, the scent of raw wood slowly permeating the house. A large pile of sawdust and wood shavings was on another tarp by the shop door, and Armas was on his hands and knees in the shop itself, sleeves and pant legs rolled up, a scarf tied around his face to keep out the lingering dust as he scrubbed the stone floor viciously with soapy vinegar water.

He just stood quietly in the doorway until Armas got up to mix more of the cleaning solution and saw him there.

“What happen’d?”

Armas didn’t reply and Sweden moved out the way so he could stomp angrily through to the kitchen, following along behind.

The tap open full-blast filled the kitchen with a hard rattle as the water stream hit the bottom of the emptied bucket. Armas dumped some vinegar in with it, not even trying for any sort of accurate ratio, and squirted dish soap in as well.

The brush clanged against the metal sink when he dropped it.

Armas pulled the cloth down from his face.

“ _Eluf_ called.”

Sweden stayed silent on the topic for a moment.

“What did he say?”

“He wants us all to come _visit._ ”

Berwald watched his younger son as he turned the water off and took the bucket and brush back to the workshop.

“‘nd y’don’t?”

“He hurt _Isa_ ,” Armas said angrily, his voice muffled by the cloth he’d pulled back up and the _skrisssh skrisssh_ of the scrub brush on the floor. “He hurt _you,_ and he hurt _me._ He was _stupid_ and _blind_ and he’s a _murderer_ and _I never want to see him again._ ”

Sweden thought of all the people he’d killed in his long life, and left.

* * *

Wales’s kitchen was unusually quiet, given the fact that Serafina DiAngeli was presently standing it.

She contemplated Ásdís’s question, though the answer should have been immediate- surely there was only one reason the woman who had decided to help fund Cassiel’s business ambitions could possibly have in showing up at his residence. 

“Well Mr. Navin did a lot of explaining and it was incredibly interesting but I did some math and there’s not enough capital for the larger projects just yet! I was wondering if there were any plans for smaller things to fund to work up the money for the very impressive larger things! And also I could recommend a sign language service if you need it!”

Ásdís wrote down the basic points and showed Cassiel.

“I have some plans for smaller things,” Cassiel admitted. “I can pull them out from the larger projects, modify them- Ásdís, we’ll need to get Øystein back here-”

Ásdís put the paper pad back on the table and scribbled a new message.

“As it happens sign language is not a language I know so I’d have to learn it before I even thought about getting a translator-”

More writing.

“And the translator would have to deal with this so what makes you think it’s a good idea-”

_‘INTERVIEWS’_

“You can’t just _ask_ people about-”

Ásdís scowled at him and glanced over at Serafina DiAngeli.

“We’re going to have to have a talk about this,” she told her curtly, starting to lead her out of the room. “Could you leave the number for the sign language service; and your phone? I’ll call you when I have Cassiel convinced that he needs to learn and I get him to give me a date on the plan overviews.”

“Do you have any idea what they might be?” Serafina asked curiously.

Ásdís thought about it a moment.

“Motors.”

* * *

Teodozja came home well before Poland was scheduled to, Roksana sleeping quietly in her carrier. She made herself some lunch, did some scholastic reading, and then couldn’t take the suspense any longer. She put the textbook away and turned on the computer.

 _‘Duzsom narody’_ went into the search engine; and very, very few results came back.

There seemed to be no helpful information on Nations in Polish.

She used an Internet translator to put it into English, figuring that there might be more helpful things there- but she got a few hundred million results, and none of them seemed relevant.

She tried it in German instead due to the fact that at least she knew enough to basically understand what was written in that language.

 _‘Seelenvolk’_ came up with a more reasonable number of hits, though still too many to go through completely- there were the basic dictionary definitions, the online encyclopedia entries, a thin smattering of passing mentions in the better class of history website-

And one online forum.

She clicked on it curiously, and found to her dismay that it was mostly in English and what was probably French- too much to stick through a translator. She hunted through the subcategories until a picture stopped her.

It was a face she’d seen two months before, at the wedding- Turkey.

The next couple posts were in German, asking about where the picture was from and if there was a date and location to go with it. One seemed to be reminding the person who’d posted the picture originally that while photographs were all well and good, they were here for hard information.

Reasonable enough- and _exactly_ what she was looking for.

The forum was the standard design that only let members post, and it was the work of a few moments and quickly signing onto her e-mail to set up an account. As soon as she had her confirmation, she started a new thread in what seemed to be the main subcategory.

The message was short and simple-

_‘Hello, I came across this forum in a search and I think that the people here can help me with some questions. I’m sorry if I’m posting this in the wrong place; I don’t really know English and my German is moderate. Polish is my first language._

_My questions are- What are Nations, really? Are they pretty much like regular people? How do they view humans? Thank you.’_

To be safe, she translated it into German and ran it through an internet translator into English to post as well, hoping it didn’t mangle the meaning _too_ badly.                                                                          

It was nice to know there were people she could talk to without having to brave the awkwardness of questioning the man who kept her fed and housed.

* * *

“I won’t make you tell me.”

Her part of the apartment she shared with the German student she’d stayed with over her two semesters studying in Stuttgart was completely packed in bags and a few boxes for the drive back to the Venice, with the exception of the computer, some clothes, and the bedsheets.

“But I’d like to know,” Adriana continued, pouring Heinrich a bit more wine. “There’s been something weighing on you all month.”

“I can’t,” Heinrich said, taking the wine. “Not yet.”

Adriana just nodded in acceptance and put the empty bottle down.

“Well, you have my number. For when you can.”

* * *

Arthur’s black wool cloak billowed out behind him as he walked up the lavender-lined gravel path to Tabitha Twitchit’s cottage. There was no knocker on the door, just a dainty little brass bell with a ceramic pull handle. It rung on a clear, high note when he pulled the chain down quickly.

Irene caught up just in time for Mrs. Twitchit herself to open the door.

For all intents and appearances, she was a large gray tabby cat in a soft purple and blue dress-and-bonnet ensemble, trimmed about with lace and ribbons.

Irene was having trouble not staring again.

“Oh, Mr. Kirkland!” Mrs. Twitchit exclaimed. “How delightful to see you!”

Arthur bowed, sweeping his cape back behind him like a dramatic actor.

“Mrs. Twitchit, the pleasure is mine,” he replied. “Allow me to present Ms. Irene Walker.”

“Hello, dear,” Mrs. Twitchit said kindly, extending a paw. Irene took it hesitantly, and shook it. It felt _wrong._ “Are you one of Mr. Kirkland’s work partners?”

“No,” Arthur said immediately. “I’m afraid that Renard Fox has, well-”

“He took my daughter,” Irene said.

The hem of Mrs. Twitchit’s dress jerked violently as her tail thrashed behind her. Her whiskers twitched as she kept a snarl down.

 _“Well,”_ she said finally. “Do come in, dear, and have some tea.”

* * *

Keld Schumacher, psychologist, took a deep breath and straightened his tie in the chrome of the metro station. He was nervous, and trying not to admit it.

He picked up his briefcase again and went out onto the street. Humanity swirled around him in the cold air, a steady breeze blowing from the opposing forces of the outside weather and overheated station behind him.

The address he’d been given seemed a bit odd to him- surely it would have been strange raising children in an area no one else lived?- but he took a taxi to Freidriechsbrüke and walked over to the west bank of the Spree, Berliner Dom towering to his left. The roof of the Old Museum was visible over the trees to his right.

He took a stone path into the trees, ignoring the small _‘Private Property’_ sign, and after some way and a turn or two reached a wrought-iron fence; well-kept and rust free despite its age.

Schumacher took out the key he’d been provided and unlocked the gate.

Beyond, the forested area gave way to a more open space, the trees giving the effect of a clearing despite the visible fence. A low half-timber and stone manor house sat slightly past the middle of the area, facing towards the barely-visible Spree beyond the trees.

Keld Schumacher took a deep breath and started up the driveway, which was less of a paved road and more of a gravel swath that cut between two attached coach houses and spilled into the courtyard of the house, surrounding a well-kept center planting framing a stone plaque.

He took a moment to stop and look- it was the coat of arms of the German Empire, worn from years of exposure and sporting hairline cracks from where someone had reassembled it.

The front door was up a few steps to a large covered porch area.

Schumacher rang the doorbell, trying not to be intimidated by the 17th century grand scale of the manor, small as it was.

He was considering knocking when someone finally answered the door.

* * *

Romano could feel Bottegante’s anger rising, and if he had been in a more reasonable mood, he would have thought about exactly what the repercussions of getting the local Camorra boss angry with him would entail; especially since he knew exactly how he’d handle them.

But he was staring down his son, whom he’d just proclaimed as his nephew- partially to keep these fucking criminal bastard _scumbags_ from asking pointed questions like _‘how come your father looks the same age as you?’_ , but mostly to tell Nico just _how deep_ his anger over this went- and Lovino was nowhere _near_ rational or reasonable.

 So the exact wording of Bottegante’s quietly, dangerously offended words were lost in the white heat of his rage but he heard the _‘I have lots of guns, mooks, and money- fear me; **obey me** ’_ implications loud and clear and Heaven damn him if he would ever willingly take orders and threats from criminals who spent their tiny, filthy existences destroying the lives of his people (someday, _someday_ he’d keep them out of public office forever) and by the time he was done insulting the Camorra boss, well-

Naples was well on-track for learning a new level of the term _‘gang warfare’_.

* * *

Teodozja held out until after dinner with Poland and few polite lies about her day before going back to the forums to check for a response.

There was only one.

_‘Kreeg een nieuwe men, Hanna’_

That was… not German. She couldn’t translate _that._

Disheartened, Dosia clicked around on the profile settings on the forum to kill time, and found herself in her inbox- which had one message.

From Hanna.

Dosia opened it immediately.

It was a laughably bad automatic translation of some other language into Polish, but the general idea got through:

_‘Hey, Theodore!_

_Welcome to the forum. I'm Hanna, moderator. I saw that you have some questions, and I thought that the best way to fix them would be through private messages, and not in the forum. It can be quite nerve in there and I was worried people might confuse you trying to say too much at once. So, the questions:_

_"What are the souls of the nations, really?"_

_The souls of the nations are the physical manifestations of the nationality and / or ethnic group. They represent the ideals and the will of the people in these groups, and there is as long as the group does._

_"Are they very similar to ordinary people?"_

_No Regular people are almost immortal and acting solely on what postulates of popular opinion. And science and psychology to know how ordinary working people. No one had ever done any research on the souls of the nations._

_"How do they see the people?"_

_Do not talk to us normal people, so we can not really be sure. They seem to not want to talk about what we think, how they think they are not superior-true, can do what they do? Perhaps they see people as something they have to live._

_I hope that the information you are looking for! Feel free to message me back and present on the main forum page, we're here to collect all the information we can on the souls of the nations, and we are interested to know how he came to be interested._

_-Hanna Schumacher’_

The last few paragraphs were really not that clear, but at least she knew _someone_ was paying attention now.

 _‘Dear Hanna Schumacher,’_ she began in careful German.

_‘I’m not really sure what you said for part of your message because it was pretty terrible Polish, but thank you for getting back to me so quickly. Would you mind re-answering the second and third questions in German or English? I can manage German and online translators are usually better at translations to English than translations to Polish. I’ve also found the Introductions topic on the main forum, and will be posting there directly._

_Thank you,  
                Teodozja’_

A few clicks took her to the Introductions topic.

‘ _Hello, everyone. I’m Teodozja, from Poland, and I’m looking for some answers about how Nations work and think. I’ve gotten caught up in a situation where having reliable information on these things would be really useful and you seem to be the only people who know anything that isn’t biased. I can talk in Polish and German. It will take longer for me to read the German but that’s okay. If you want to use English I can try that.’_

A thought struck her- she wasn’t sure how good of an idea it was, but they were all here trying to find hard answers, weren’t they?

So Dosia got up and went into Poland’s office, flipped through the little sparkly box of indexed business cards, and took a picture of one with her phone.

 _‘I’ve got a person you could call to interview or something too,’_ she added on to the end of her introduction post when she’d returned to her room, quickly changed Roksana’s diaper, and uploaded the picture. ‘ _Here’s her business card:_

                                                            

_Thank you all for being here to talk to._

_-Teodozja’_

* * *

Finland came home from the office to the smell of a ready dinner and the sound of someone setting the table.

“Berwald?”

It was strange to have him in Helsinki when Armas was in Stockholm. Had they… fought?

“Hm?” his husband grunted, and carefully placed the main course in the center of the table.

“Is Armas here?”

“No.”

“Well…” Timo said, sitting down. “How was your day?”

“Eluf called th’house ‘nd Armas screamed at him.”

He nearly dropped his plate that was so unexpected.

“ _What?_ He-” Finland searched for a response, and found nothing terribly coherent. “ _Why?_ ”

“B’cause he’s human,” Sweden said simply. “‘Nd he hasn’t learned t’forgive like we have.”

Timo looked at his food sadly and picked at it.

“What did he say?”

“He wants us t’visit.”

“I’m free in a few weeks.”

* * *

**_Multilingual Sign Language Interpreter Needed in a Full-Time Personal Assistant Position_ **

_Candidates must know either German or American Sign Language and be fluent in primarily English and German. Competency in Italian, Hebrew, and other languages preferred. Candidates must be trustworthy, reliable, flexible, discreet, and willing to handle business, personal, and family issues in complete confidence. Those with criminal records are ineligible. This position is intended as a career; not a job._

_Salary is negotiable and can include bed and board. Interviews must be done by scheduling._

_E-mail Cassiel Navin at_ [ _casbnavin@google.de_ ](mailto:casbnavin@google.de)

* * *

The first impression Schumacher got was _‘tall’_ , and the second was _‘German’_. It made sense, but it also made him feel a little stupid for being predictable.

The man frowned severely at him.

“Who are you?” he rumbled.

 _Be professional!_ Schumacher scolded himself.

“I- Keld Schumacher, psychologist, I’ve been hired by the European Union-”

He cut himself off abruptly and fumbled for his credentials, finally getting them out and shoving them at the man.

“-and I’m here to see Gilbert Beilschmidt?”

The frowning intensified into a scowl as the man looked his paperwork over.

“A moment,” he said abruptly, and disappeared into the house with Schumacher’s papers. He stood awkwardly in the doorway, wondering if it was acceptable to come in or not.

He took a few hesitant steps inside and tried not to listen to the man arguing with someone over the phone. It was over surprisingly quickly, and then the man came out into the foyer and roared **_“GILBERT!”_**

This must be Ludwig then.

Germany disappeared momentarily, and Prussia marched in a minute or so later, fixing his shirt.

“Hey.”

“Hello.”

“Great you talked to me now _get lost._ ”

Schumacher sighed internally.

“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way.”

“Yeah, well, there’s nothing to psychologize here,” Prussia said, and planted his feet very firmly. “The sooner you leave the sooner I can tell our _Bundeskanzlerin_ to kindly _fuck off._ ”

“I don’t think that’s particularly polite of you,” Schumacher told him.

“Don’t care.”

“Look,” Keld said. “I’m getting paid to be here for at least an hour. Just- talk to me, so I’m at least a _little_ doing my job. No ‘psychologizing’.”

Prussia looked at him suspiciously.

“ _Just_ talking?”

“Just talking.”

Gilbert looked around.

“Well, you’re going to hear a lot about the house then.”

* * *

Mrs. Twitchit was one of those _very enthusiastic_ tea people who crop up periodically. She treated tea- at least judging from the full-wall rack of tea ingredients and the different pots lined up above the stove and counter and the glass-fronted cabinet showcasing a wide variety of different cups- as _very_ serious business.

She proved this by taking five minutes in conversation with Arthur about the precise blend and temperature and steeping time of the tea he’d like and brushed over Irene’s _‘whatever you have’_ with a faint nose-twitch of disapproval. She let the water that must have been perpetually simmering on the stove heat up a little, then served them all.

Arthur explained the situation between sips.

“I do hope you’re of the mind to teach him a proper lesson this time, Mr. Kirkland!” Mrs. Twitchit said severely. “Renard Fox is a perfectly _horrible_ man and it’s about time he had some manners thrashed into him!”

“I really could not agree more,” Arthur replied. “You wouldn’t happen to know when Rhudd is coming in, would you?”

Mrs. Twitchit’s ears flicked back.

“Mr. Kirkland, whatever could you want with Ms. von Rothbart’s stagecoach service?”

“I believe Renard Fox has fled to Mae Llys chan ‘r Tylwyth Teg.”

The Welsh settled heavily into the air, out of place in this children’s book world.

Mrs. Twitchit hissed- ears back, teeth bared, eyes narrowed- and promptly covered her muzzle with her paw.

“Oh dear- pardon me,” she said, not sounding terrible convincing.

“Of course,” Arthur said evenly. “Please, Mrs. Twitchit-when is Rhudd von Rothbart in?”

“She’s at the top of the Old Trail now,” was the answer.

That was- surprising. And a turn of good fortune- they wouldn’t have to stay the night after all.

England made a bit of small talk, waited until Irene had finished her tea, then made their goodbyes to Mrs. Twitchit.

* * *

“Was that wise?” Sicily asked him as they walked- stalked, more like, in Romano’s case- back to the villa.

 _“No,”_ Romano said savagely. “But it will be _worth it._ ”

Sicily didn’t say anything to that.

Romano spent the rest of the day on the phone- first with Spain, screaming and trying not to cry; then with his other children and his nieces and nephew, curtly informing them that Nico was, in his eyes, disowned until further notice.

He made himself a meager dinner and moved Greece off the couch in the main room into one of the side rooms; and set a chair up against the wall of the main room, close enough to the connection to the atrium that he’d be within reacting area but far enough so he couldn’t been seen by anyone walking in until the last second.

Then he turned on all the lights, grabbed a book he didn’t much care for, and settled in.

The assassin showed up a bit before midnight. Lovino heard him coming, waited for the last moment, then lunged to his feet and hit the man as hard as he could in the face with his book.

A Nation’s hardest was very, very hard. The man’s neck twisted unnaturally far around and he dropped to the floor.

Lovino called the police, waited patiently while they took a statement and carted the body off, and silently judged who on the response team had heard about his very public disagreement with Bottegante.

Everyone; it turned out. He wasn’t all surprised- and it would interesting what news got back to the Camorra boss. Organized crime didn’t have ties high enough in the Neapolitan police department to know who they’d crossed.

Romano’s one pride in his police department was his ranking officers. He felt almost bad about what he was likely going to put them through.

* * *

Timo and Berwald met at _Helsingin vankila_ on Sunday morning. Armas had still refused to come.

Security was easy for them get through with Timo; and soon they were sitting across a partition from their son, the security guard over by the far wall in deference to his Nation.

“Hey, Eluf,” Timo said quietly.

“Hello _Isa_ ,” he replied. “Armas didn’t come?”

“He’s still angry.”

Eluf sighed.

“I- are _you_ angry at me?”

Timo leaned into Berwald.

“…A little,” he admitted. “But mostly? Hurt, and disappointed. I thought you knew how to do the right thing.”

“I thought I did too.”

Berwald titled his head, just a little. It wasn’t a gesture anyone outside the family would pick up on.

Eluf did, and continued.

“I’ve been thinking about things,” he said. “And… _Isa_ , I don’t regret trying to help you. Only that you’re hurting because of it. And I can’t fix it.”

He locked eyes with his parents in turn.

“But I’m going to try.”

Timo looked alarmed.

“Eluf-”

“Armas should have been here for this.”

Timo leapt to his feet.

_“Eluf-”_

But he pulled out the razor he’d managed to hide up his sleeve and stabbed it in his throat before the guard could arrive.

* * *

The house grounds were a little more extensive than Schumacher had previously thought.

Prussia had taken him on a short tour of the house, quickly pointing out rooms and briefly touching on a painting or mounted display. It had been slightly informative, if not really useful in any way.

So far.

They were out on the grounds now, and a footpath through the trees had them on the banks of the Spree, seated on an old bench on a small gravel strand that didn’t merit the name ‘beach’. Here, in silence, Schumacher considered his options.

“There are a few things that I don’t think anyone has properly informed me of,” he said eventually.

“What?” Gilbert asked.

“Do you have a familial relationship to Rémy Beilschmidt?”

The way he snorted told Schumacher all he really needed to know.

“Nephew-in-law,” he said. “Married Zell- Gisela. Lutz’s eldest.”

“So you _do_ have children,” Schumacher said, mostly to himself.

“We all turned suddenly human for ten, fifteen years. Shit happened. Don’t think Lutz was planning on having kids, but hey. She’s awesome.”

There hadn’t been any mention of a wife or girlfriend in the quick house tour.

“Does her mother live somewhere else?” Schumacher inquired, as politely as he could. There seemed a distinct possibility that a sudden switch from human to Nation would result in a messy divorce.

Prussia looked at him, hard.

“My brother,” he said slowly. “In over a century and half, has only been involved with one person. And it’s a toss-up if Lutz or Feli is more motherly because for all that Feli needs to be a woman sometimes Lutz _broods_ like some great big hen. Neither of them getting pregnant anytime soon.”

“Ludwig’s… gay?”

“It’s more complicated than that but you ask _him_ about it not me.”

He paused.

“I can’t make them fire you,” Prussia continued, voice low. “So if I hear that you’ve been an ass about it or to anyone else the EU is siccing you on then I _will_ find you and I _will_ make you sorry for it because by God nobody needs you sticking your nose in their shit they’ve got _enough_ to deal with _especially-_ ”

He leaned in closer.

_"-my-”_

That was a personal boundaries violation now. All Schumacher could see was Prussia’s eyes, blurred because focus was impossible at quarters this close.

“ _-brother._ ”

Schumacher would back up, but he was against the arm of the bench already and had nowhere to go.

“I should be dead,” Prussia told him. “Prussia’s been gone a century now. People say I’m just too stubborn to die- and you know what? _They’re right._ And I’ll be a stubborn asshole for the rest of eternity if it means I’m around to protect my brother so you _keep the fuck off of him._ ”

That was absolutely not within the scope of his job or ability; but Schumacher agreed silently and resolved to note all this down once he’d escaped.

* * *

Payton Josephson had come across the advertisement for the multilingual sign language interpreter and thought that _surely,_ it must have been a typo.

She knew American Sign Language and it had been a bit since she’d practiced her German- but she was a firm believer trying all the plausible opportunities she could, so she wrote a professional e-mail in German and sent it to the address listed.

She received a prompt reply from Cassiel Navin, inquiring about her other languages. She admitted she had none; and he sent over suggestions for interview times and a request that she bring some letters of recommendation.

Payton Josephson arrived midday that Saturday at a nicely-appointed house and reflected that it made sense that room and board were offered if the person offering had enough money for _this._

She knocked on the door and got what was probably the shock of her life.

_Ásdís Geirsdottir opened the door._

**_Ásdís Geirsdottir opened the door._ **

_“Oh wow,”_ Payton squeaked very unprofessionally.

The movie star looked her up and down, then asked: “Payton Josephson?”

“Yeah,” she managed, still faint, but this time without the squeak.

Ásdís Geirsdottir was gesturing for her to come inside and _she was unexpectedly in the presence of her hero._

“I’m overseeing this hiring job for a friend of mine,” Ásdís said as she led Payton through the house. “Cassiel. A genetic fault manifested suddenly over Christmas. It left him deaf and without any sensation of touch. He’s still learning sign language, so you’ll have to be patient with him picking up on your hand signs.”

“That’s okay.”

“He’s uncomfortably energetic sometimes.”

“As long as it’s not inappropriate.”

“We’d kill him if he was. In here.”

Payton guessed this was what people called a ‘sitting room’. There was a man sitting on a chair in clear line-of-sight to the doors.

Ásdís ( _Ásdís Geirsdottir!_ ) closed the door behind them and sat in one of the other chairs.

 _‘Hi,’_ Payton signed, slowing herself down so Cassiel could keep up. _‘I’m Payton. You’re Cassiel?’_

“Yeah, hi!”

It threw her a little. Payton wasn’t used to the idea of people she signed to speaking back.

_‘You’re a little loud.’_

“Sorry. You brought recommendations?”

The meeting went pretty well; but Payton was strange when at the end of it Cassiel said: “I like you and I want to hire you but I have to see how you react to some things.”

That… was a little sketchy.

 _‘They’re not-’_ pause for emphasis ‘- _illegal,_ _are they?’_

“Nope,” Cassiel assured her, and promptly set his hand on fire.

 _“Holy shit!”_ Payton screeched, and nearly knocked her chair over trying to get up.

The fire went out as suddenly as it had come and Payton was left staring.

“I do magic,” Cassiel said by way of explanation. “And if you’re going to work for me that’s something you’ll deal with and something you can’t mention.”

“I said it was a genetic fault,” Ásdís added. “I lied. This idiot went and did magic when he shouldn’t have and paid for it.”

On reflex, Payton signed Ásdís’s words for Cassiel.

“Hey, that’s too fast I don’t know what you just said.”

Payton repeated it slower.

“I didn’t _know_ it was a bad idea at the time!” Cassiel protested. “And I _saved Zheng’s life._ See how she reacts about the family thing.”

“The family thing?” Payton asked. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to know.

“Our parents are varying degrees of human,” Ásdís told her.

* * *

 

“What was that about?”

Irene and Arthur were back on the country road, which was rapidly ceasing to be a pounded dirt road and turning into a gravelly path that, if it had been raining, would be _hell_ to slog through. Mrs. Twitchit’s house had receded into the distance and was lost behind a small hill covered in lavender. Now, they were so far away that the lavender fields had given way to what Irene strongly suspected were purple poppies.

“What was what about?” Arthur asked.

“At Mrs. Twitchit’s house,” Irene said. “All that about the Welsh thing and Rhudd and Mrs. Twitchit snarling at you when you mentioned it.”

They spared a moment to clamber around a boulder.

“And _why,_ ” she demanded. “Did we do all that with the boat and the dragon and the train and Morningtown when you thought you knew where _my daughter_ was?”

Arthur was strolling along like he should be wearing a top hat and swinging a walking stick, and it was a little infuriating.

“You want to know why we didn’t just go straight to Mae Llys chan ‘r Tylwyth Teg?”

_"Yes.”_

There were… mountains, in front of them, mostly. She hadn’t noticed them before; and when she looked back for a moment she saw Morningtown laid out below her, distantly, with Mrs. Twitchit’s house tiny beyond the sprawling rolling carpet of purple lavender-and-poppy at the foot of the mountains.

When had they started up a mountain?

“You remember how I told you this was Honalee, not Fairyland?”

The upset silence said _‘of course’._

“That’s because where we’re _going_ is ‘Fairyland’,” Arthur continued. “Though it’s still not polite to call it that.”

“So _why-_ ”

“The easiest way, but not really the most accurate, is to think of it like a spectrum.”

He held up both fists about two feet apart.

“Over _here,_ ” he shook the left one. “Is the mundane. These are things in the universe that just don’t have the power to affect things on a grand scale. Nonliving things like… rocks. Inconsequential things that can’t start a reaction of cause-and-effect. On the other end-”

He shook the right fist.

“-is the cosmic. Nuclear reactions, black holes, supernovas, gravity, death, divinity- that sort of thing.”

The path was widening out again, and flattening some. The gravel was ground into the road by use.

“There’s a lot of room in between, of course. Now- _you,_ you’re substantially human. It’s not _completely_ what you are; but regardless it is very far towards the mundane end of the scale. I can’t just push and pull you with impunity all over the multiplicities of reality that compromise the observable universe. You’d get steamrollered somewhere along the way by something _far_ beyond your ability to cope with. Fairies aren’t even that much further towards the cosmic than humans; and I know something terrible would happen if we just skipped a level.”

“ _‘Skipped a level’_? We were talking about a spectrum,” Irene said, accusation creeping into her voice.

“I _told_ you it wasn’t a very accurate example,” Arthur replied with a little irritation. “Fine, no explanation- I have to take you the _long_ way around so you don’t get bloody well _annihilated_ by the universe.”

In front of them, the road widened out into a bare courtyard on the edge of a cliff-face. From here, you could see the sea. Irene realized the entire area they’d just been through was situated on a plateau, completely cut off from the rest of the mainland by the mountain range they’d entered. A stone-and-wood house, seemingly a few different structures patched together, was backed up against the nearest rock outcropping. A new road, wider and better-kept, ran off in the opposite direction of the cliff and disappeared into the stony twists of the mountains. A stable sat opposite the house; and the dull ringing _clank_ of metal-on-metal came from the other side.

 _“Mr. Schmidt!”_ Arthur said loudly. _“It’s Sir Kirkland!”_

 _"COME ON ‘ROUND!”_ was the answering roar.

They circumvented the stable and found an outdoor forge set into the far side of the building. There was a large man who’d clearly just put aside his forging waiting for them.

“Sir Kirkland,” the blacksmith said, with a little dip of his head.

“Mr. Schmidt,” he replied. “I heard from Mrs. Twitchit that Rhudd is in.”

“That she is,” Mr. Schmidt said. “I’m making new shoes for her horses now. Where’re you off to, if I may ask?”

“Mae Llys chan ‘r Tylwyth Teg.”

Irene jumped violently when Mr. Schmidt hit the anvil hard with his hammer. Arthur just stood there.

Mr. Schmidt had noticed her reaction and eyed her as he said: “Beggin’ your pardon sir, but _what the hell_ do you want with the Fair Family?”

“Renard Fox.”

“Has got nothing to do with-”

“Stole the child of this woman, who merits enough _personal protection_ for a powerful life-long aegis enchantment. I believe Renard Fox fled to the Silent Hills to escape retribution.”

Mr. Schmidt outright stared at Irene now.

“Irene Walker,” Irene said, feeling awkwardly on the spot.

“John JJ Schmidt, Lady Walker,” John said, doing the same head dip he’d done for Arthur at her.

Irene was going to object to the ‘Lady’ title when someone hollered: _“JOHN YOU DIDN’T SAY THERE WERE PEOPLE!”_ out a second-story window of the house.

 _"IT’S SIR KIRKLAND AND HE BROUGHT A LADY!”_ John yelled back; and within a minute a woman in worn carriage driver’s clothes barreled out of the house, skidded to a stop in the dirt in front of them, and bowed, sweeping her hat off her head.

“Sir Kirkland,” she said, a little breathless.

“Rhudd von Rothbart,” Arthur said formally. “I need to hire your coach en route Mae Llys chan ‘r Tylwyth Teg; as far as Lavender’s Blue.”

She straightened up and plopped her hat back on her head.

“Sir Kirkland,” she said, expression somber. “There’s only one thing you could pay me with to get me to drive you out to Lavender’s Blue.”

Arthur shrugged the bag he still carried off his shoulder and opened it, showing Rhudd the blanket he’d knitted on the train.

“Wool from a sheep fed exclusively on asphodels,” he said.

John Schmidt whistled, lowly. Rhudd stiffened, eyes flickering between Arthur and the bag.

“A deal then, Sir Kirkland,” Rhudd von Rothbart said. “As soon as John has finished reshoeing my horses, we’ll be off.”

* * *

The Internet was a dangerous thing.

A forum user by the screen name of brbrussel was the first to take a look at Teodozja’s introductory post, panicked internally a little at the office when the business card appeared, and immediately took a screenshot of it in case it disappeared later.

User Adipocere64 saw it three point six seconds later, and stuck the name _‘Maria Gisela Costa Beilschmidt’_ into a search engine; then _‘Office of Nation’s Affairs’_.

SKBlackguard went back into old e-mails and forum posts, searching for _‘Beilschmidt’_. That name seemed familiar.

Anthemion was German and worked at the Reichstag as an intern. Fragments of office gossip led to the (not-so-)public record, and by the end of the day Hanna Schumacher had the birth certificates of Maria Gisela, Sonnehilde Lavinia, and Heinrich Marco Costa Beilschmidt in her e-mail. She printed them off and stuck them on her pin wall.

NepenthesLatrociny was a little more enterprising than Adipocere64, and with the judicious application of most of a day’s effort, turned up a blurb on a Berlin church’s blog congratulating _“our lifelong sister in faith, Gisela Beilschmidt”_ on her engagement to one Rémy Fabrice Bonnefoy.

That too found its way onto Hanna’s pin wall, attached to the birth certificate with a little bit of colored thread.

CyberiteAgape logged on to the forum, stared hard at the activity hit count on the most recent Introductions post, and immediately messaged Hanna.

Hanna replied with _‘Rémy Fabrice Bonnefoy, Sonnehilde Lavinia Costa Beilschmidt, Heinrich Marco Costa Beilschmidt. Get to work’_.

CyberiteAgape forwarded a slew of hits for Deutscher Oper Berlin productions with _‘Heinrich M Beilschmidt’_ in supporting cast roles for various Italian- and German-language operas, a wiki article listing Olympic-level fencer Nia Beilschmidt’s full name as _‘Sonnehilde Lavinia Costa Beilschmidt’_ , and her fencing stats within the next half-hour.

The biggest catch of the day, however, was Kilroy’s newspaper collection. A mid-pages report from Christmastime on a reported bear attack outside Martigny listed _“holidayer Vasco Durante Agresta Fernandez, of Madrid, Spain”_ as the only casualty, and _“his brother-in-law, Zheng Wang, on vacation from the Netherlands”_ as the other injured party. The scan of the article went up on an invitation-only portion of the forum dedicated to strange happenings in the vicinity of locations Nations were known to be.

HullabalooDydler identified Switzerland in the background of the picture accompanying the article, and Barrow16 caught Spain and China.

Hanna printed off a copy of the post information and stuck it to her wall.

She spent the rest of the night rearranging portions of the wall around the newspaper picture and the business card; until at 2:30 in the morning she twined the end of one string around the thumbtack holding _‘make new profiles, friend/add/etc. likely candidates for Beilschmidt Bonnefoy Fernandez Wang, investigate friends/contacts/etc. listings’_ , stuck a post-it note on the bottom of Spain’s picture ( _‘_________ Fernandez’; FIND OTHER CHILD/REN)_ , and went to bed.


	19. 2047: April

Had the tipping point been Hong Kong?

Had it been Kyonig?

Sakha?

No one in Europe seemed able to agree where enough had become _enough._ But was that really relevant when a simple EU meeting had the continent squaring off?

Lithuania was ranting about Russia again, but now Poland was nodding along and Latvia and Estonia were hovering silently in the background, lending their tacit support.

Macedonia, Bulgaria, and Albania were demanding more peacekeeping forces in Greece and their justified agitation at increased violence along the borders they shared with the collapsed country lent an air of hysteria to the room. The rest of Europe, who should have been focused on the looming global economic crisis Hong Kong represented, instead formed factions around them.

Germany stood quietly off to the side with Prussia and Rémy, panicking, as he watched Europe splinter and felt the continent begin to finally tailspin out of control.

* * *

Honestly, there probably _was_ a conspiracy.

Keld Schumacher felt very strange admitting that to himself, but, well- it seemed more likely to be horribly true than not.

The Nations of Europe, for all that he’d heard from Rémy about their current divisiveness, were putting up a very unified front against his efforts at _doing his job._

Prussia, for all his threatening, had probably been one of the most forthcoming Nations he’d visited so far. Ukraine had fed him and kept him wrapped up in small talk. Romano had made him sit for the full session in the same room as Greece, which the psychologist felt was probably supposed to illustrate some sort of point, and said what little he did with so much vitriol for the world and his own government that he couldn’t help wondering if he was actually _holding back_ some of the nastier things he wished on people. France had run him out of the house within twenty minutes by being uncomfortably sexual. England wouldn’t return his phone calls and never seemed to be home; even after Schumacher had spent a week camped out in London. Poland left him thoroughly confused, he could barely understand what Sweden had said, and Norway had impressively managed to not make a sound or move so much as a centimeter for the entire hour.

Yes, he’d been told they were contrary. Yes, he’d been told they were difficult. But he couldn’t imagine that they _all_ so astutely avoided the possibility of mentioning actual personal relations and any pent-up emotions or troubles like this. He _knew_ what was happening in Europe- he read the articles each morning on his newsfeed. The only possibility left that Schumacher could find was that the Nations of Europe were intent on keeping themselves to themselves and were plotting against him.

At this point, the fact that today he was scheduled for the Netherlands could only rouse so much concern in him.

But, this _was_ his own Nation, so he’d made sure to pick the best of his business clothes and had them washed and ironed and took a taxi instead of public transit or walking. Schumacher ended up, alarmingly enough, right next door to the Noordeinde Palace in the Hague. He’d _seen_ the address and knew it was Noordeinde; but he hadn’t thought he be right next door to the Royal Family.

The taxi driver gave him a funny look when he got out of the car; and it took all of Schumacher’s self-confidence to walk up to the door and knock.

* * *

“Really, thanks for having me over for Easter,” Armas said for about the tenth time as Nia pulled into the carriagehouse-turned-garage in her father’s house.

“It would have been rude to leave you in Denmark,” Nia told him again.

“And thanks for putting me up.”

“Hey, no point in you living in a hotel until you find a job. I’ve got room.”

Gisela and Rémy were waiting for them in the doorway to the house.

“ _Babbo_ isn’t coming,” was the first thing Nia heard from her sister.

“They still won’t _talk,_ ” Zell continued. “I’ve _seen_ them at meetings at the UN-”

“EU too,” Rémy added.

“-and _Vati_ will try to talk to _Babbo_ but _Babbo_ will stay away from him! He won’t even _look_ at him and he barely goes anywhere that he doesn’t need to for work-”

“What’s going on?” Armas asked, the only person there who wasn’t in on the family drama.

“Germany and Italy haven’t talked since Christmas!” János called from an adjoining room.

That pulled Armas up short. Germany? Italy? Not speaking? This was possible?

“Did Germany get mad at Italy for the, uh-”

He didn’t want to say suicide- because that’s what it had been, Italy had killed China to walk back in and kill himself. Armas _really_ didn’t want to say suicide, not after Eluf; but instead the word hung unsaid in the air.

“ _Babbo_ ’s the one who’s not talking,” Nia said eventually. “ _Vati_ was calling a lot, a couple months ago, but _Babbo_ never picked up…”

“If he’s talked to _anyone,_ it’s only been _Zio_ Vino or _Zio_ Cris,” Zell continued. “And _they’re_ not talking either. _Onkel_ Gilbert told me he’d called _Zio_ Cris but he didn’t say what he said. We have _no idea_ what’s going on.”

Everything lapsed into silence again.

“ _Far_ and _Isa_ didn’t talk about- Eluf, ever,” Armas said after a few moments. “Either time.”

“Or Christmas,” János added quietly.

“They’re doing the thing,” Nia said suddenly, sharing a look with her sister.

“The thing?” Rémy asked blankly, when no one offered an immediate explanation.

Zell motioned them all into the garage; and shut the door behind them.

“The thing where they have a personal issue and _don’t talk about it_ ,” she said exasperatedly, standing in front of the door. “They _all_ do that, haven’t you noticed? They’re-”

“-too used to _silence,_ ” Rémy finished for her, voice bitter with his new understanding. “It’s habit- centuries of keeping secrets because _talking_ about it is an opportunity for someone to take advantage of it. You don’t tell people your problems; and it’s polite not to notice the ones the people you care about have.”

“And if you’re trusted with a secret,” János said grimly. “You _never_ tell it voluntarily. Yeah. Okay.”

“ _Vati_ is the _worst_ with this,” Zell was getting angry now. “He just- he _takes it._ When I- after I really realized just how _involved_ they were the World War, I ran away for a little while. And you know what the first thing _Vati_ said after he found out I was at Mr. Bonnefoy’s house and called was? He offered to help me _move out_ and was ready to have all my paperwork and records transferred-”

She cut herself off and crossed her arms, staring hard at the wall, tears forming. Her husband slid up next to her and put an arm around her waist.

“Mine just never talked about it,” János muttered. “I mean, I _knew._ ”

“You remember how _Babbo_ was after Heinrich panicked at Easter?” Nia asked. “He sat on everything until and stewed until _Zio_ Vino made him do something about it. This is the same thing, isn’t it, except no one’s making him talk. And _Vati_ ’s just going to let it stand because being desperately accommodating didn’t work.”

“When Heinrich gets here we’ll call _Babbo,_ ” Zell decided. “I have helpful print-outs.”

* * *

China’s calls had gone unanswered; even when he started them with _‘It’s Yao-’_ and not _‘It’s China-’_.  

He hadn’t seen Hong Kong and Macau and Taiwan in- months, now. It was understandable, but they’d been doing _well_ at being family. They had been making it _work,_ and not everyone was happy but none of them were happy all the time or even most of the time sometimes.

Yao didn’t _want_ to fight. If Hong Kong and Macau didn’t want to live under him, if they wanted to live with Taiwan like they’d declared, _fine._ He just wanted this nightmare of a year to be _over._

He wanted to be able to call Japan and know Kiku wouldn’t ignore him as he’d been ignoring Europe in quiet rage and grief. He wanted to drop in on Hong Kong and have Jin complain about his eldest brother’s age. He wanted to spend a day with Li in Macau’s fancy restaurants and tourist shops. He wanted Taiwan to give him the time of day again, because even if Taiwan and China weren’t supposed to get along Yao and Hua had managed to work something out.

So Yao was slumped against the wall of a train station, just outside the limits of Hong Kong, staring tiredly at his cell phone. The only reason it hadn’t died yet was because he’d brought his wall plug. He didn’t dare go closer to the city- that would be a personal affront, even a reason for actual violence. So far, through some miracle- but really money, probably, no one could profit if an economic hub turned into a war zone- they’d managed to escape _that._

No one was talking to him. Cato called sometimes, when she had the time for long-distance, to reassure him in oblique terms that Zheng was all right and ask after Tai.

Tai wasn’t really speaking to him either, come to think of it. At least _he_ was going home next month.

Trying any longer would just be silently admitting to _willful_ blindness about the situation; so Yao pocketed his phone and cord and took the walk from Hong Kong to Beijing.

* * *

Belarus’s house was not exactly _bustling,_ but this was the most lively it had felt in months. Natalya’s children and grandchildren were here, and Ivan’s, and Ukraine had come alone because Sadık didn’t celebrate Easter and Halya was needed for Important Public Relations Events with her fiancée.

However, admittedly and unavoidably, Easter dinner was strained this year.

Russia was currently in a side room on his phone, doing his best not to yell at the cause of the strain.

 _“I don’t like this,”_ he hissed.

“Well, it’s _happening_ whether you like it or not,” Pajari snapped at him. In the background, people were making noise setting up for the treaty signing. “ _Why_ can’t you just be grateful that we’re getting two things handled in the same treaty?”

“Because I don’t want to let the Caucus go and I don’t want Belarus!”

“It’s the closest to an even trade we’ll get! We’re letting people who want to go go and we’re letting people who want to come come and we’re doing it without dragging the army out!”

“This is going to make the unrest in the east _worse_ and we still have Kaliningrad-”

“Bringing the army out over the _Caucus_ would make it worse! There’s tensions enough over Kyonig-”

“You’re not even _trying!_ ” Russia accused. “You’re already calling it by _that_ name-”

_“We can’t just march an army through Lithuania and Poland!”_

_“We cut four hundred and seven kilometers off the march through foreign territory by annexing Belarus!”_  

Pajari gritted his teeth.

“There is no perfect solution to this,” he growled. “But this way we don’t look like we’re giving up- we’re consolidating. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Russia _hated_ that phrase.

“I don’t want my _sister_ dead and I want my _Navy back._ ”

“We’re going to get it back. Have a nice Easter.”

Ivan was going to retort with: _‘Natalya won’t make it through the day because of your treaty’_ , but Pajari had already cut the connection.

* * *

It didn’t seem like the Vatican’s quarters could possibly fit so many people, and really, it was debatable how well they were. Things had spilled out into the garden a bit.

Lovino and Antonio were here, with Cato and Zheng and Fabrizia; and Cenzo and Lorenza and little Amadea, who’d been born since Christmas; and Ditta and Nike and Apollonia taking a rare trip away from Naples and Greece in Lovino’s house.

It hurt for Cristoforo to look for Vasco and Nico, and remember where they were.

“Are you going to talk to anyone?” he murmured. “Sancha looks suspicious.”

Feliciano, who’d been hovering near him ever since Mass had ended, shook his head silently. Cristoforo wondered if he’d say anything today.

The Vatican took a deep breath and closed his eyes, listening to the sound of the new, small Nations playing- for once, able to ignore the thrumming nationalism that had brought them into existence in favor of getting to know each other better. There was Switzerland, trying to make smalltalk with Teodozja- he had to check in on her at some point, see how her daughter was doing- and… _oh._

And Liechtenstein and Denmark slipping off for somewhere more private. He probably didn’t want to know what the giggling was about.

“Hey-”

So that was where Poland had got to.

“Yes?” he asked, turning.

Feliks was eyeing Feliciano, like he couldn’t decide if having him here was a good thing or not.

“Can I talk to you?” he asked Cristoforo. “Like, over there?”

He waved weakly at a garden path.

“Of course- Feliciano, why don’t you help Sancha.”

Poland waited until they were well out of earshot, a little ways down the garden path, before he started talking.

“Thanks for having that prayer for peace. That was totally awesome like, you have _no_ idea.”

“It was the Pope’s idea.”

“Still.”

They took a seat on a bench, and watched the flowers silently as the Vatican waited for Feliks to continue.

“Do y’think we’re going to _really_ have a war? Like, a seriously-for-real war. Not a lot of totally _stupid_ posturing and threatening military movements.”

“I hope not,” Cristoforo said. “Though some people seem to be doing their best to create one.”

“But _why?_ ” Feliks burst out. “Why can’t they just leave it _alone?_ ”

“I really don’t know, Feliks.”

“I just- things are cool! They’re not like, super- _great_ or anything, but they’re _totally okay!_ Why don’t they _realize_ that a _war_ in _Europe_ is like totally the worst freakin’ shit _ever?_ Everyone just _totally fucking **dies!**_ ”

“It’s been a century since the end of the Second World War; and people like forgetting about the other ones, because they were internal. Or they remember too well, and think _‘this time’_ ; and try again. _We_ are the only ones who remember how bad it _truly_ is.”

Poland buried his face in his hands.

“I’ve got Russia on both sides of me now,” he moaned. “And NATO is like, _totally_ not helping ‘cause America won’t _get his shit together_ and nobody has his firepower.”

“Ivan doesn’t want a war,” Cristoforo said. “I know that. And it doesn’t seem like Pajari wants one either.”

“ _Yeah,_ but Kyonig’s totally _holding their navy hostage_. They’re gonna cave _sometime_ and I’m gonna get _totally_ stomped on! Russia can’t just let that _slide._ ”

“No one will let you get invaded, either.”

“They’d totally better _not._ ”

* * *

“You never finished explaining,” Irene accused. They were settled into Rhudd’s stagecoach, waiting patiently while she got her horses harnessed up. There were six of them, and it was taking a while.

“Pardon?” Arthur asked.

“First Mrs. Twitchit; then John Schimdt and Rhudd. Whenever you mention Tylwyth Teg  people- react badly.”

“You remember I told you about the spectrum- the closer you get towards one end of the spectrum, the more negative feelings you encounter, generally. Tylwyth Teg is further towards cosmic power than Morningtown or the top of the Old Trail. If the people who live in Tylwyth Teg were to come to Morningtown, well- it likely wouldn’t end well for the residents. Tylwyth Teg is more powerful than them.”

“They were scared,” Irene said, realization dawning. “It’s like- the little superstitions people have on Earth?”

It felt very strange to be referring to Earth as somewhere else.

“Yes,” Arthur said. “But something for you to think on- the fear runs both ways. Anything closer to mundanity is a potential threat just as much as those closer to cosmic power. Everything has their weaknesses; and at least with those more powerful, you can pretend to pull them down to your level.”

The stage lurched as they started on the next leg of their journey; and Morningtown and the sea disappeared behind them.

* * *

There were going to be no Easter dinner or services for Cuba and his son.

Zacarías sat across the table from his father, expression tired and drawn. It had been a long five months since Salcedo had taken power.

“You’re sure about this?” he asked, half-heartedly. The answer wouldn’t have changed, but he had to ask anyway.

“Won’t happen unless I do it myself,” Cuba said. “Let’s go pay Adán Salcedo Esparza his due visit.”

* * *

Hanna Schumacher was woken in the middle of the night by her cell phone going off.

 _‘WE GOT HACKED,’_ was the title line of the e-mail CyberiteAgape had sent.

_‘Two hours ago, from China or Korea. Not clear. Hacker poked around locked forums and left a message in your account inbox. No damage to code detected, still processing. Updates sent later as needed.’_

Hanna rolled out of bed and waited blearily for her computer to boot up. She had to read the message in her inbox a few times over before it processed properly.

       _‘Hello Hanna Schumacher_

 _Greetings from the Korean Unification Movement. We are currently in a position of closeness to a hostile Nation and would appreciate clarification on some points:  
_ _1._ _The hostile has been observed teleporting. Do Nations have other supernatural powers?_  
                     _2._ _Do you know the extent of the entanglement of Nation with country/government?  
_                     _3._ _Are we correct in our assumption of familial relations, through either blood or adoption, between Nations and humans? We have observed what we believe to be an example of such a relation._

_Please reply. I’ll get the message._

_-the Korean Unification Movement_

A thrill of excitement shot through her. It had been three months since there had been any leads on real information about Nations, especially on the ‘family’ front. The one contact they had through Teodozja had been slow going- after Hanna couldn’t offer much information, she’d been an infrequent visitor.

Hanna quickly wrote out a reply.

                _‘Korean Unification Movement-_

_Could I interest you in an information exchange? I give you what I know, and you tell me everything you have on this example of a ‘familial relation’._

_-HS’_

Someone must have been assigned to wait on the other end, because not two minutes later she had a reply.

                _‘Agreed._

_Wang Tai, also Tai Carreido, living in Beijing until mid-May with ‘grandfather’; observed to be China/Wang Yao. Has been living in Amsterdam with mother, father, and sister. Obtained records indicate two children of China/Wang Yao: Wang Shi, daughter; and Wang Zheng, son. Wang Zheng married to one Wang Nuo, son Wang Tai. Wang Shi, Wang Zheng, Wang Nuo arrested under suspicious charges. Death record found for Wang Nuo under maiden name Cheung Nuo. Status of Wang Shi and Wang Zheng uncertain.’_

This was huge this was _huge-_

                _‘Thank you **very**_ _much._

_Here’s what we know: Nations can ‘die’ but they don’t ‘stay dead’. At least some of them are also inhumanly strong. Their lifespans seem indefinite. No idea how closely the government/people are with Nations; but it’s probably pretty strong. We have historical evidence that points to them always siding with the government. Don’t have so much information about the familial relationships, but we’ve documented at least one other case of this phenomenon in Europe and are investigating a few more. You’ve given us a big push with what you know._

_Also, you didn’t have to hack us. You could have just made an account and we would have shared gladly. Message me back if you need anything else.’_

* * *

Ukraine had pulled the rocking chair up next to the couch where Belarus was lying, staring blankly up at the ceiling. Pavel and Rozete were sitting on the floor, leaning up against the cushions, Pavel’s head resting on his sister’s shoulder. Anatoli and Sofiya were huddled together on one of the big armchairs, where they could see Stasis and Yakov, in the next room.

A whisper of sound, and Kateryna had to check to make sure she’d actually heard anything.

“What, Natasha?” she asked, leaning forward. Pavel twisted his arm to grasp his mother’s fingertips. She bent them, minutely, in response.

“Where is Brother?”

“Ivan.”

It was so quiet in the house that her voice at normal level seemed like shouting in comparison.

He was there suddenly, slipping onto the couch and cradling her in his arms.

“Right here, Natasha.”

She turned her face into his chest let her eyes close.

“I’m going,” Belarus murmured.

“I know.”

“I don’t know if I want to.”

“Stay?” Rozete pleaded from the floor. “Please, _Maci._ ”

Pavel moved so he could hold her hand tighter.

“You’re still ours,” he said stubbornly. “You _can’t_ go. We’re still here.”

Natalya smiled against Ivan’s shirt.

“That is not enough, Pasha. I’m sorry.”

She pulled her hand from his.

“Go. Please.”

“ _Maci-”_

“And you, Roz. Please. I do not want you to see.”

Kateryna inhaled sharply and met her niblings’ eyes, silently asking them to _‘please please leave’_. It took a few moments; but then Anatoli got up, and the rest followed. Pavel was the last out, and closed the door behind him.

Belarus sighed, deeply; and Ukraine wedged herself between the couch arm and her younger siblings, holding them both tightly.

“It’s all right, Natalya,” she said quietly. “You can go. Be well.”

* * *

Schumacher had not expected the door to be answered by a young girl, who frowned severely at him and then screamed: **_“GROOTVATER FALKO!”_**

Immediately, there was a commotion from a side room and, and Schumacher suddenly found himself with a faceful of Large Severe Man in a Suit.

“Sir, I have to ask to ask you to step away from the doorway.”

“I-”

“Sir, you need authorization for this property.”

“ _Mijnheer_ Beilschmidt-”

“Arnoud,” a flat voice said. “I was expecting him.”

Arnoud the Suit Man inched out of the doorway uncomfortably.

“ _Mijnheer_ _Nederland_ , you’re supposed to _clear_ these things with the staff.”

“It was cleared,” the Netherlands said, and Schumacher got his first look at his own Nation. He was unexpectedly tall, and seemed to have an inclination towards a highly idiosyncratic fashion, because he had no clue what to make of the combination of fashion scarf, old tobacco pipe, and re-dyed military coat. “Take Gabriëlle back to the palace.”

Schumacher had a moment to realize he’d met the Dutch Princess before he was ordered inside. The Netherlands led him to a sitting room that smelled heavily of tobacco, though the window was open to vent the area. Everything was a sort of meticulously upkept antique; from the faded, slightly-yellowed wallpaper to the carefully-repaired upholstery. There was the usual conglomeration of historical artifacts he’d come to expect from a Nation’s home scattered around- oil paintings, decorative boxes, tapestries, wall-mounted weapons, statuettes, old books- the Netherlands seemed to have a little of everything.

The Nation sat down in a thick armchair and grabbed a box off the coffee table between it and the couch. He flipped it open, and refilled his pipe with a few pinches of snuff.

“It’s been a couple centuries,” he said a little defensively when he saw Schumacher watching him. “I like it and I’m not stopping just because other people don’t like it.”

“Where did you pick it up, ah, _Mijnheer_ Zeghers?”

Falko shrugged.

“Fifteen-something. New World- no, too early for that.”

He blew some smoke out his nose, the way Europeans in the early days of The Age of Exploration had, and seemed to contemplate it.

“England probably gave me some. Don’t remember. Maybe I stole it off him; could’ve done that. You did.”

Keld suddenly had a very vivid memory of the first of a very few times he’d tried a cigarette. One of Hanna’s friends had had some, and he’d snuck one out of her pack and lit up in the back yard when no one was looking.

“How-”

“You’re Dutch,” the Netherlands said simply. “I know.”

Schumacher was going to say something else but his mind intruded instead- had his Nation just implied that he could read his _mind?_ Did he even _need_ to talk? Was he doing it right now? Oh God what was he _finding-_

“Nothing important.”

Keld jumped.

Falko settled back into the chair, closing his eyes and savoring the taste of tobacco.

“Didn’t even have to think about looking. Everybody wonders the same thing.”

That-

Schumacher’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“You’re in on it,” he accused.

“In on what?” Falko asked mildly.

“The-” Well, _now_ he just felt stupid thinking it. “-conspiracy. To keep me from doing my job. None of you will _cooperate._ ”

“There’s no conspiracy.”

“I’m really not sure I believe that.”

The Netherlands cracked one eye open to look at him.

“There’s really not. There doesn’t need to be.”

Schumacher reminded himself that he was here to do _a job_ and settled back on the couch.

“And why is that?”

The Netherlands was still for a moment, before shrugging to himself like it didn’t really matter.

“Let me tell you some about being a Nation,” he said, taking a deep huff of his pipe.

* * *

 Heinrich was accosted immediately upon parking his car, a sister each grabbing his arm and pulling him along into the room off the garage where Rémy, János, Cassiel, and Armas were sitting. Armas and Nia had gone to show their faces to the family and commandeer some food and Cassiel. His new translator- Payton, he was pretty sure her name was- seemed okay, and handled the strangeness of her family well for never meeting them before.  She could keep up signing two threads of conversation, even. Hopefully Ásdís and Øystein weren’t letting him wear her out.

“ _Babbo_ didn’t come,” Nia told her twin as Zell slipped off to get their father. “He and _Vati_ are doing the _thing_ where they don’t talk about their problems.”

That made Heinrich more annoyed than he’d thought he’d be. It had been one thing when it was just after Christmas; but that was four months past now.

_“Still?”_

“Call him.”

A few moments later, they were waiting patiently on Italy to pick up his phone.

“Heinrich!”

“Why aren’t you _here,_ _Babbo_?” was probably the wrong way to start the conversation, too sharp and accusatory, but Heinrich wanted his _parents back._ He wanted his other father here, smiling and pressed up against his husband and waiting with a hug and kiss for his children and guests. He didn’t want this Italy who had come for him in the House, this distant man held together by old pain and dull fear who was one opportunity from walking away and leaving them broken and breaking-

“I-”

“No. There is _no_ reason for you not to be here, _Babbo_! You and _Vati_ have been at this since Christmas and its Easter now, it’s time to _stop._ You’re _hurting_ him and you’re worrying _us_ and if you need someone to talk to then we’re _here;_ if it’s one of those things you don’t want us knowing about then talk to _Vati,_ at least. And if you _won’t_ talk, then-”

He made a large, wordlessly frustrated gesture as Zell showed up with their father.

“-just _come._ Stay with us, _Babbo._ Nia and I haven’t seen you since Christmas. Get excited about Zell’s baby. Mock _Onkel_ Roderich about trying to marry János off. Argue cultural refinement with _Oncle_ Francis. Help _Nagynéni_ Erzsi coddle Armas.”

“I can’t, Cino,” his _Babbo_ said, and it was so empty and resigned and Heinrich _hated_ it.

He thrust the phone at his father and stormed off.

* * *

The mountains had given way to parched grassland- Irene was tempted to call it prairie. It was dry and dusty and far too hot- she’d slept again, at some point, and woken to a dark starry sky. Rhudd’s white horses were galloping full-out now, and Arthur was staring out the stage window, staring as the thin clouds overhead rolled by. There was rain, far off, and Irene watched the lightning and listened to thunder until dawn.

They stopped for breakfast, and Irene was getting a better handle on how distance and time was strange here, and wasn’t at all surprised when the mountain range had disappeared entirely and there was nothing but grass and cracked dirt.

There was no road, but Arthur trusted Rhudd to know where she was going, and Irene had no choice in that.

It was getting dusky when the stage slowed next, and Irene had only looked away from the window for a moment when she looked back and saw short, thick, wet green veldt where tall yellowy weeds and grass had been before.  The thunder seemed closer, the rumble a low background noise that never quite went away, and heat lighting flashed in the clouds above them despite the cool damp air.

They stopped, and Rhudd picketed the horses. Arthur led the way again, and Rhudd followed Irene. There were no boulders this time, just a long gentle slope upwards that looked out onto a slight depression in the surrounding hill country, filled with lavender bushes and a perfectly still, clear pond.

The lavender bent easily enough to let them through the pond shore, where a foot-wide strip of dark, thick earth was completely clear. They walked in single file around to the other side, where the perimeter was broken by the only outcropping of lavender, which spilled into the pond itself, some of the tiny fallen blooms floating on the water.

When they reached it, she saw a white swan that rose from its nest in lavender and waddled out towards them. Irene tried to pull back- she’d heard that swans were very territorial and nasty if provoked- but Rhudd splashed through the knee-deep water in the pond’s shallows to pass both of them and get to the swan. She knelt in the dirt next to it, murmuring, and reached out to stroke its head.

Arthur reached into his bag and pulled out the blanket he’d shown off to buy them passage. He shook it out over Rhudd and the swan, a little bit of still darkness against the roiling sky, and let it fall over the swan.

It settled over a human form, and a woman, blonde hair loose and long and ragged, peeked out from underneath.

 _“Odile!”_ Rhudd exclaimed in evident relief, and tackled her to the ground.

“Her sister,” Arthur told Irene in a low voice.

Irene hugged herself and tried not to stare. Somehow, of all the dragons and cats in dresses, this was the strangest thing that had happened to her yet. A glint in the bushes caught her eye, and she realized the swan’s nest had eggs in it- golden eggs.

This was truly a fairy tale.

“Take them,” Odile said, and Irene glanced over to find the woman staring at her through her tangle of hair. “Please, milady, Milord Sorcerer, I have no need of them. Take them as thanks.”

Arthur rested a hand on her head, briefly, and got on his knees next to the nest to load up his bag with golden eggs.

* * *

Easter was a _great_ time of year, in Spain’s opinion. It was new beginnings! Second chances! Just rewards and personal revelations and other wonderful things.

Hopefully, the spirit of Easter would hold through this conversation.

“How has Feli been?” he asked, starting with the less explosive of the two topics.

Lovino didn’t actually frown at him. His mouth flattened into a stiff, thin line that had been perfected for raising five children who’d learned his sheer stubbornness and a tendency to keep hitting until the other person folded. It was an expression that said ‘ _I am not getting angry or raising my voice but I **could** because this conversation should **not** be happening’_.

“Fine,” Lovino answered curtly.

“He’s not fine,” Antonio countered. “I know he’s not fine, the entire _world_ knows he’s not fine. When was the last time he and Ludwig looked each other in the eye? They talk around each other in meetings. Zell is going to have a baby and I only know because _she_ told me.”

“If it’s falling apart, that’s _their_ problem.”

“They’ve got friends and family and it’s our business too especially when they won’t _talk_ about it,” Antonio told him, exasperated. “Ludwig isn’t much for sharing; but Feli should have gone crying to see half of Europe by now! What’s so wrong that he won’t talk?”

Romano started staring him down.

“It _isn’t_ actually your business,” he said. “It’s a family matter so you can fuck out of it.”

“I _am_ family,” Spain reminded him.

“There’s family,” Romano said. “And there’s _family._ ”

“I’m your _husband._ I’m both.”

“You’re not, actually.”

“So is _Nico_ not family, then?” Antonio snapped, a little nastier and much sooner than he’d intended to.

Now, Lovino was full-on frowning.

“He’s a _criminal._ ”

“He’s _engaged!_ ”

“He’s going to marry into a _Camorra_ family, he’s a criminal!” Romano exclaimed angrily, poking Spain in the chest. “And don’t give me bullshit about _‘he’ll stay out of it’_ or _‘they’re breaking away’_ \- what organized crime _has_ organized crime _keeps,_ until you pry it out of their corpses’ grasps!”

“It doesn’t have to,” Antonio said, with a lot more calm. “It would help if you hadn’t _thrown him out._ No one could give better protection.”

“You can’t give ground to those fuckers-”

“Nico is _our son!_ He’s not there to _make a **point!**_ ”

_“I can’t let them keep walking all over me!”_

“So this is a _pride_ thing?” Antonio spat. People were starting to stare, a little, so he lowered his voice. “This is about _territory_ and _power?_ That’s what _they_ fight over, Lovi. You’re fighting _just_ like them and you sacrificed our son to do it!”

“I _need them **gone,**_ Antonio!” Romano hissed. “At least now the police can investigate them for trying to murder me! It’s a federal offense!”

That was alarming news.

“They’ve been trying to _murder_ you?”

“I _‘disrespected’_ the biggest Camorra boss in the city in a public café; _of course_ they’re trying to kill me!”

He was going to need a moment. Lovino had been in danger all these months- not real danger, by Nation standards, but he’d been fighting and could have been dying and he hadn’t _known-_

A horrible thought occurred.

“Lovino- I thought that was the father of woman Nico’s marrying.”

“Bottegante. Yeah.”

_“You-”_

He was not going to hit something. He was _not._

**_“CAPULLO!”_ **

The Vatican garden was suddenly a lot quieter. He hadn’t actually meant to swear that loudly.

Lovino was back to staring, but there was an edge of fear and hurt behind it that Spain simply did not care about right now.

“ _First_ you tell him he’s out of the family and _then_ you anger the only man he has to turn to? The man who wants you _dead?_ I cannot _believe_ you, Lovino! _You gave him a **hostage!**_ ”

Lovino opened his mouth, and Spain pushed on.

“You ran in angry and butted heads and now _he has Nico._ He wants you dead and he can’t actually _kill_ you but he. Has. _Nicodemo!_ He can kill _him!_ He can kill him to get to _you!_ ”

“Then _I’ll kill him,_ ” Romano snarled.

_“You’ll have killed your **son!** ”_

That brought the other man up short.

“I am going to Naples _right now,_ ” Spain told him, voice gone low and angry. “I am going to get Nico, and his fiancée, and they are coming with me to Barcelona, where there is no one who wants you _dead;_ and where we will not lose _another_ child. You can keep your _stupidity_ and your _secrets_ and your significantly-emphasized _family_ to **_yourself_** until you’re willing to behave _decently._ ”

He left Lovino standing in the Vatican gardens, completely unable to come up with a reply.

* * *

The Guardian of State was what Salcedo had named himself, and the fact that under him the State was functionally impotent had not escaped Cuba’s notice. He cared only for the title, not the responsibility.

Salcedo’s ‘government’ was lazy, unorganized, and ineffectual. Most of the previous regime had been driven out of the country or killed, and never replaced. Salcedo deputized his guerilla captains to handle the few decisions he actually decided to make- really, the only reason it stayed going was force of habit. He’d never even appointed a second-in-command.

Everyone carried on in the withering command structure as usual, even without real orders, in the hesitant, fearful hope that somewhere, someone would deliver on the promises made by the army they’d supported.

Something would tip, eventually, and plunge everything into chaos.

Cuba was just going to… recalibrate things a little. Keep the tip from happening.

Zacarías was off with the plane, with a set of orders for the pilot depending on if he got the call from his father or not.

Cuba gave a small nod to Salcedo’s ‘secretary’, a young woman who looked more uncomfortable than busy, and walked right into the office. Salcedo looked up as Cuba kicked the door shut behind him, but had no chance to say anything before:

“Got a plane waiting,” Cuba told him, leaning over the front of Salcedo’s desk. He’d forgone his usual casual clothes for a full suit today. “Get up and out of here without a word or die.”

If this was going to happen there was no room for any other option. If Salcedo spoke, he could order; and Cuba would be helpless.

Salcedo stared at him.

“I’m serious about this. You’re a lying piece of shit who’s not any different than all the other ones who’ve come through this office and I am _sick_ and _tired_ of having you in my country. I can’t trust anyone else to get rid of you, so I’m gonna do it _myself._ ”

“ _Your_ coun-”

And the Guardian of the State was dead.

Cuba shoved his body of the seat. The secretary came to investigate the dull _thunk_ , and the only thing that kept her from screaming was shock.

“It’s okay, Rosalva,” he told her. “Call someone to get this, huh?”

By the time some police arrived to collect Salcedo’s corpse, Zacarías had gotten the call and thanked the pilot for her patience before leaving the airfield; and a piece of paper had been taped on the door to Rosalva’s office, the only route to the Head of State.

_Office of Marco Echemendia, Nation and President of the Republic of Cuba_

* * *

The forums were alight.

Hacksaw, a user who hadn’t done much but lurk, had started signing on more lately. Now, there was an update from Naples, posted after a request from Hanna for permission to access the permitted-access-only section of the forum.

_‘The Camorra is FREAKING OUT. One of the local bosses got in a feud with some guy in a café and can’t get at him. The men they send keep turning up dead in conspicuous places. People are saying La Diavola came up from Palermo to protect him. I looked into La Diavola, and it looks like it’s all folklore- aristocratic woman in red, vendetta against the Mafia in particular and organized crime in general. People treat it kind of like a ghost story. The most common tale is that she’s the spirit some debtor’s wife or girlfriend or daughter out for revenge. Other times she’s a Don’s mistress. No matter the story, she always takes wounds that should kill but turns up again and again and again to kill the people responsible. I think the stories probably started with a Nation, I’d say Sicily, and grew from there._

_It would make sense, anyway, since I did some digging and it turns out the guy the Camorra’s pissed at is Italy #2. He lives up on Camaldoli Hill, near the hermitage, in this big Roman villa. I went exploring up there today, since it was Easter and everybody else was out, and there was a dead guy who’d been rolled down the hill. There was somebody else, who looked pretty dead, I took a picture and stuck it in at the end of this._

_And I found a mailbox._

_Italy #2 is Lovino Agresta Vargas.’_

It only took a couple of minutes and Hanna referencing backlogs of information to tentatively identify the man in Hacksaw’s picture as Greece.

Hanna catalogued it all neatly, and added another name to wall. Soon, there would be more.

* * *

Elke Bastian held the megaphone up to her face.

“Thank you all for coming!” she said, and her voice boomed out over the street. “I know it’s Easter, and a lot of our Christian volunteers turned down familial obligations! Special thanks to the people, Christian and not, who _brought_ their families along!”

It wasn’t quite a rally, and it wasn’t quite a fundraiser. Elke wasn’t really sure what they’d ended up calling it- everyone on the planning committee had a slightly different version- but it was definitely community service.

It was… rather out of proportion to anything she’d expected. It was supposed to be _Germanen für Landesstolz_ ’s first big event, yes, but she’d been under the impression that they were going to get the committed party members, maybe a few people they dragged along, and the sort of people who honestly _enjoyed_ doing community service and turned up at every opportunity.

So- either there were a _lot_ of one-time volunteers in the street, or there were a _lot_ of party members no one had told her about.

Elke told herself she was going to be optimistic about this. Any one-time volunteer could _become_ a committed party member, after all. And if they made a good showing, and the message about their work got out, then eventually, there would be more.

One of the party members who’d driven into Stuttgart from Dusseldorf ( _Dusseldorf!_ Four hours by car!) had temporarily donated his truck for the cause. Currently, she was standing on it’s flatbed, so she could see out over the crowd. Already, she could see interested people filming and taking pictures on phones.

Well. Better make today count, then.

* * *

 

“Not really sure what you’ve been told about Nations,” the Netherlands said. “Probably not half as interesting as you think it actually is.”

“Haven’t heard much,” Schumacher told him honestly.

“Hm.”

The room was silent as the Nation thought, the only sounds from the street outside the cracked window and the Netherlands’ heavy breaths every so often as he took another deep inhale of tobacco.

“Think of this,” Falko said after a while. “You’re born. You wake up alone. You know two things- who your people are, and what they call you. So you get up, and you’ve never walked before, so you fall flat on your face. You manage it eventually. You head straight for your nearest person; because they’re strangers but you know them anyway. They see a strange child, unaccompanied, walk up to them suddenly. Everybody reacts differently. Maybe they feed you. Maybe they ignore you. Maybe they take you to the church and sternly tell you to wait for your parents. Maybe they decide you’re a spirit and try to drive you off. Maybe they’re soldiers in battle, and they don’t care about adding another body to the ones they’ve already got.

Whatever they do, they treat you like you’re someone they don’t know. But _you_ know them; and when you realize you’re them but they’re not you, you don’t know what to do. You retreat, trying to reconcile these people who see themselves as their bodies, while you know you’re in all of them. Maybe you try asking people. They’ve got no clue what you’re talking about, so they dismiss you as a small child’s imaginings or take you for insane. Maybe they send you to the nearest holy place to get the spirits chased out. Maybe they run you off. Maybe they kill you outright.

It feels like a betrayal. You’ve turned against yourself already. Eventually you learn enough to go to whoever’s in charge of your people. You turn up and tell them who you are and it’s great. They know you’re supposed to exist. They believe you. They call you by your name. They’re the first one to ever do it; and they make everybody else do it too.

So you’ve finally got a place to live and a change of clothes and steady food and people who are taking care of you as best they can. You figure _‘hey, this is a good life’_ , because you’re young and stupid.

Then your boss is talking to you one day and gives you an order.”

Smoke billowed out of the Netherlands’ mouth and nose, hiding his face in thick white.

“You’ve done pretty much whatever you’ve wanted for your whole life. You’ve learned about choosing to do things you’d rather not, because you get along with others better that way, but you’ve always _chosen._ But your boss tells you to do this thing, and suddenly you _have_ to. It’s a physical thing, it’s mental, it’s spiritual. It tears you apart inside until you do it just to make it _stop._ You’re terrified, because no one ever told you this could happen. You think maybe those people from before were right. You’re possessed; you’ve got demons and spirits and evil in you, controlling you. But nothing that’s supposed to repel demons and ghosts affects you. So you think maybe it happens to everyone, and it’s just something you’re Not Supposed to talk about it. So you hide out from your boss for as long as you can.

Then your boss wants to show you off, because hey, they’ve got a Nation around, they’re _official._ So you get all dressed up and other bosses come around with _their_ Nations. It’s the first time you’ve ever met someone like you. It should be a great thing. But you’ve heard all about how they want your land and your people and all of you. They want you dead. So you’re all formal with each other and a little suspicious and you treat each other like right old bastards because that’s how they learned to see the world and that’s what you’ve been told.

You realize everyone dies and you don’t. You realize you’re not like everyone else. You realize you don’t have a family. You don’t have friends. You’ve got a shitload of enemies instead, and you’re fighting them as soon as your boss can get somebody to teach you how to use a weapon right. So you fight and you kill and you die and you get back up again and you see all the terrible things your people can do and they’re you so you know you can do it too.

So you do them.

You get bigger and learn more and people start treating you more like an equal, and you can’t tell if you’re less or more than them because you’re _certainly_ not equals. You get thoroughly beaten a few times and return the favor a few times too. Maybe you get outright conquered and have to listen to even more people. Maybe you conquer some other places.

And you learn not to talk to anybody; because they don’t know _shit._ They don’t know shit about being a Nation, and after you’ve been around a century or two, they don’t know shit about people or history or government or war, either. You’ve seen a lot of horrible and some really good. But you can’t tell any humans, because again, they don’t know shit. You could _tell_ them what they don’t know about being a Nation, but they wouldn’t _know._ Maybe you could do it with other Nations. But they’re all your enemies still. Maybe you almost die for real at their hands a couple times. You permanently kill a whole lot more of them than try it to you.

Eventually you get some friends. The world gets as big as it’s going to get. You have a few big wars, and everybody decides they’re going to not let that happen again, we’re _serious_ this time. So you all start to learn how to talk to each other; what you can mention and what you can’t and how close is close enough for the things you want to ask and say. Sometimes you just sit and try not to cry because you said something and everybody knew what you were talking about for the first time in hundreds or thousands of years. Sometimes you actually do cry, because the universe is shit and humans are shit and you’re shit and **_damn_** _you all, why couldn’t you just **get along** so we could have always had this._ And maybe you even do it in company and you’ve got somebody there to just hold you who _knows_ and isn’t going to use it against you later.

You all build a sort of social code that only the suspicious backstabbing murderous bastards you’ve all accepted you are could really get; because you’re all suspicious backstabbing murderous bastards who are trying _not_ to be, and it’s better to trust the ones who know how much it hurts than the ones who don’t and know how to game the system to make it hurt a little less where they can.”

The Netherlands jammed his pipe back in his mouth; and Keld saw what he recognized as a sort of terror-tinged challenge in his eyes, defiant and waiting for a blow to come.

There was nothing he could say to what he’d been told. This was too big for one session; too big for what Keld had been trained for. Whatever he’d known previously that brought to the table, he realized now, would always be just a little off; something made for humans by humans, which had no room for Nations.

The Netherlands seemed to realize Schumacher wasn’t going to say anything, and his jaw unclenched from around his pipe.

“There’s no more conspiracy here than self-preservation. If they keep you on long enough, somebody will talk eventually.”

“I- thank you for telling me.”

“I only told you because I know _you_ won’t tell.”

* * *

 

Feliciano was confused for a moment, waiting for Heinrich to pick up where he’d cut himself off, but instead he heard a quiet, hesitant: “Feli?”

Oh God, it was Ludwig.

He tried to steady himself, but Ludwig was engaging him in conversation, and he’d been staying out of this for a _reason-_ it would only hurt him to know what state his soul was in, he had time for other people, who knew when the demon was coming back for him, Ludwig would only worry if he knew because he couldn’t _fix it_ and it would become this great unmentioned Thing between them, slowly poisoning everything.

Their marriage wasn’t fair, or healthy, and he _couldn’t do this-_

“Feli, _please,_ I’m sorry.”

It hurt to listen, to stay silent- but he couldn’t hang up, it had been too long since they’d _talked_ and he’d felt Ludwig’s absence so painfully-

“Please tell me what I did.”

He should hang up but he knew that tone, he knew Ludwig was tearing himself apart and what had he been **_thinking,_** _‘Ludwig had friends now who could help him through whatever troubles he had’_ ; that was _so_ wrong, the only people he’d ever trusted with real emotional intimacy was his brother and Feli himself and it wasn’t like Gilbert could give him any answers and Ludwig had a guilt complex like the _Mediterranean-_

“You didn’t do anything!” he said before he could stop himself.

There was a beat of silence, and their whole relationship was _fucked **up**_ right now-

Feli could _feel_ the story building up, the truth was about to break out finally, and everything would fall to pieces- but he couldn’t.

He couldn’t do that; he really couldn’t. Not to Ludwig- and really, it was bad enough that his brothers knew, thathe _knew_ Cristoforo had been trying to decide if there was any way to save him, that Lovino would come up with anything to talk about on Sundays _but_ church, and had been subtly trying, a little uncertainly, to maybe make him take a couple weeks off of going.

There was no good way out of this situation, and until Feliciano found one-

“You really didn’t, Ludwig, I promise.”

And hung up.

* * *

Zacarías drove from the airfield to Cubavisión headquarters. The government car got him in with the secretary, who let him up to the news department, where he delivered the sealed envelope with the press release about the regime change to be aired that evening.

When he got back to the car, he took out the list his father had given him, consulting the first name and address.

The government car was a bit of a hindrance here, but it got him the attention he needed. No one wanted to keep the door closed on him for fear of reprisal.

“Mrs. Jimenez? Your country would like to know if you’re willing to accept a job opportunity-”

Hopefully, they could have things up and running with a _little_ efficiency, at least, within the next fortnight.

* * *

Arthur and Irene left Rhudd and her sister at Lavender’s Blue and started into the hills.

“Are we going to have to camp?” Irene asked doubtfully, eyeing the darkening sky. It flashed still, with heat lightning, but was completely silent. No wind, no insects or birds. Even her words didn’t seem as loud as they should.

“No,” he said. “And I would never stop for long, not in the Silent Hills.”

They trekked up and down the dull gray hills until the sky cleared, everything gone black and starlit. Irene kept losing track of Arthur with her eyes, the black wool of his cloak blending in too well. She stayed as close as she could, and drew her own black coat tighter around herself.

Presently, they came to a ring of standing stones. She got the feeling Stonehenge should have immediately come to mind, but it didn’t- this was too natural, and somehow off-putting, in a way Stonehenge could never be. There was only a single pair of stones capped by another in the entire configuration, a dark hole in the hill visible beyond it.

“This is Allt chan ‘r Brenin,” Arthur said, stopping next to the stones. He held his hand out for her to take. “The King’s Hill. We’re going into The Court of Tylwyth Teg now, to see Queen Nicnevin. Stay quiet, and let me talk. The Fair Family is no company for humans.”

Irene was about to point out that he was human, as well, but he tugged her over to the side and through the standing stones to one side of the capped pair.

Despite having acclimatized to the idea of strange space and time relations, it gave her a start to see one happen so abruptly. A step through the stones and they were in a tiny anterior chamber facing a large, heavy set of double doors.

The guard on the door looked them over a minute, then bowed deeply.

“I see your mother still keeps you out of her favor, Ly Erg,” Arthur said.

“The Queen’s disregard pains me only with the absence of my beloved, Your Majesty,” the prince answered, still in his bow.

Irene stared.

 _“‘Your Majesty’?”_ she hissed under her breath. _“Why do you keep getting promoted the further in we go?”_

Arthur ignored her.

“If you run for the horses,” he told Ly Erg gravely. “You might catch up to Rhudd von Rothbart and Odile before they get halfway to the mountains.”

“Truly?” the prince asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“Truly.”

He dropped to both knees.

“A debt I owe you,” he began. “So large I cannot fathom-”

“Yes, yes, all right,” Arthur said, sounding flustered and awkward. He waved his hand- Irene thought it was to dismiss Ly Erg’s concerns, and perhaps it was, but she found her clothes changed suddenly. Her coat had lengthened, turning into a sort of overdress, and her shirt and pants and shoes were much finer and fancier than they had been a moment before.

Arthur was similarly changed, cloak gone quite stately and impressive, the suit he’d been wearing since they’d left England looking more like something from an old royal portrait.

Ly Erg got up from the floor and straightened his uniform jacket.

“I will go for the stables once I announce you.”

Arthur seemed to accept this, and leaned over to whisper something to him. The prince nodded, Arthur held out his arm for Irene to take, and the doors were opened before them.

“His Majesty Arthur Kirkland, King England; and Her Royal Highness Irene Walker!”

Irene felt a distinct need to speak up here.

“You are _not_ the King of England and I am _not_ royalty!” she snapped quietly.

“I didn’t say I was,” he murmured in reply. “The _‘of’_ makes a very large difference. And here, under the Hills, you are.”

Any retorts were completely silenced as they began the walk down the court hall to the throne past the staring assembled faerie, and Eglantine threw herself out of the crowd and at Irene.

_“MUM!”_

* * *

A Nation’s true death, when it came, was fast.

It would be nice to say something about dissolving into light, or wisping away in the breeze, or just being gone, suddenly, in an eyeblink- to watch a Nation die, and be able to later compare it to any number of cinematic shorthands for a peaceful death.

You couldn’t.

A Nation’s true death looked like water boiling away. The skin rippled and stretched and burst into thin sheets that flew away, curled and crumbled like burned paper, revealing nothing beneath and leaving nothing behind but empty air. It started in the extremities- the hands, the feet, the ears and nose. Often the face went first, before the forearm and calves had fully dissolved, giving bystanders a moment’s view of the brain and throat before it was gone.

Even when the dying Nation was silent, accepting or unconscious, death made a noise. A breathy sort of sigh, quiet and gently reminiscent of the sound flames in a fire made.

Russia and Ukraine took the back door of Belarus’s house, carrying the trunk they’d been preparing since they’d known she was dying between them. Inside were Belarus’s funeral clothes and accruements.

The ground wasn’t exactly easy to work, but they made silent labor of it. When they had a hole wide and deep enough to take the trunk they lowered it in, and shoveled the dirt over, patting it down just enough to keep the low mound shape.

Ukraine slipped back to the house, and came back with Pavel and Roz and Anatoli and the others, everyone carrying flower plantings. They pulled the plantings out of their black plastic containers and got to work on the new garden.


	20. 2047: May

Cubavisión’s announcement about the regime change hit in time for it to make the evening news in Mexico, by which time subtitled recordings of the original news report were hitting the threshold for Internet notoriety on social networks. The late night news on the major American grabbed it and ran.

Hanna was woken once more in the middle of the night by frantic e-mails from the forum on her phone. She had her laptop open in bed, balanced on her legs. One of the American reports was playing as she scrolled down the private part of the forum.

_“Self-styled Guardian of the State of Cuba Adán Salcedo Esparza was deposed earlier today in a surprise coup-”_

_‘HOW CAN CUBA DO THAT. THEY CAN’T BE ALLOWED TO DO THAT.’_

_‘Should we look at royal and noble lines instead of trying to find little mentions in the history books? Someone else must have done this at some point.’_

_“-Salcedo overthrew the last government in his own coup late last year as the leader of the rebel Anti-Espín League, promising all Cubans deliverance from the totalitarianism that had gripped the island for nearly a century-”_

_'I bet he’s trying to be like Rome and them were, venerated’_

_'Governments are a **human** thing! They can’t let this stand!’_

_“-announced in November that he would be standing in for a to-be-elected head of government. Salcedo subsequently deferred elections when asked to suggest candidates, and his inaction on replacing government workers and officials killed or exiled in the coup quickly lost him the good faith of Cubans-”_

_‘What if they’ve **all** been planning something like this? What if this has been their plan all along? They **don’t die,**_ _nothing anyone could do could make them give up the position if they didn’t want to. We could all be living under immortal dictators any day now.’_

_‘I’ve seen all the things we’ve found on them. I don’t want to live that way. EVER.’_

_“-coup was nearly bloodless. The only casualty appears to be Salcedo himself, reported dead in his office to the police at about noon-”_

_‘Who even knows what they think? How they think? We must be so beneath them, the people we have now are bastards but at least they’re **human.** Just think about the laws they’ll make to keep us in line.’_

_‘Shit, I’m **GERMAN,** I don’t want a fucking **Nazi** running my government.’ _

_"Cuban news outlets reported that the position of President has been claimed, in a historically unprecedented move, by Marco Echemendia, the **Nation** of Cuba. For those unfamiliar with the term, we provide Oxford Dictionary’s entry-”_

_'Oh God. We have to do something. We HAVE to. We have to take a stand for ourselves before it happens again.’_

_'I agree with SixArba, we CAN’T let this happen in Germany. No one else knows what we do. We have to use it. We **can’t** hand over the government to him.’_

_‘Should’ve done something about him before this. Been saying it since we found the pictures, haven’t I?’_

_‘C’mon Hanna, what’ve we got on Germany?’_

* * *

It was truly surprising how fast the United Nations could pull a special session together when they were terrified.

The Department of Nations’ Affairs was, in its way, every bit Zell Beilschmidt’s baby as the one currently five months along inside her womb. It was important to her, though much more of a formality or administrative convenience to everyone else.

But now, after Cuba had bucked the unspoken tenants of the entire existence of humanity, the Department was suddenly _intensely_ important to everyone else. She was bombarded with calls and emails, questions and rants and venting and threats that she tried to read without descending into a blind cold rage at the things they were saying about her family, about the people they relied on, and then printed and filed them away and saved everything externally for use as political leverage later.

She’d just finished with the last threat in her inbox, an unexpectedly subtle one, when she looked up to find that the lights were much too bright and glaring and it was nearly three in the morning. The intern, David, was asleep on the floor, sitting propped up against the reception desk he worked at, surround by print-outs and binders and old books from Zell’s office library.

Meirvaldis appeared, quietly.

“Why are you here?” she demanded muzzily. “You’re still on medical leave.”

“You needed me,” he said simply. “And I needed to be away from everyone treating me like I’m going to fall apart if they touch me.”

“No one’s signed off on your health. I don’t want the stress-”

“I didn’t have a _psychotic break,_ ” Meirvaldis snapped. “It wasn’t trauma or whatever else my parents told people to get them to stop asking questions; you _know_ that, Zell. I’ve promised too many times that at the first _hint_ of something being wrong, I’ll call the Vatican and my parents and go take myself off somewhere private, _just in case._ _That_ is the biggest stress in my life right now, and I can only get away from it by _working._ I booked a plane ticket and packed _in secret_ and called a taxi in the middle of night to get out of my father’s house and get here; so don’t _tell me_ I can’t work!”

Zell stared at him blankly for a moment, trying to process.

“I’m sorry,” she said belatedly.

Meirvaldis deflated a little bit.

“You need to sleep,” he said. “The day is going to start in two or three hours. Do you have a change of clothes here?”

“No,” she said after a moment’s consideration.

“Give me your keys, I’ll go get you something and you can sleep in the office.”

“Clean up first,” Zell said firmly, heaving herself out of her chair. “Give me the papers to file, you mark the pages in the books and put them on the side table.”

They circuited the room, until finally Meirvaldis lugged over a heavy old battered binder, with a peeling label that read _‘Die Seelenvolksrecht- Nachschalgebuch’_.

“What is _this?_ ” he grunted, trying to drop it onto the table.

“The length and breadth of time and human civilization and I’m the _only_ _one_ with a library on Nations. You’ve got the index- primary documents, scans, books, picture files, everything I could get my hands on.”

She inclined her head towards the desk she’d been occupying.

“I’ve got Section Three of _Die Seelenvolksrecht_ there. It’s all the laws and regulations and regulations every country made about Nations, coming into and leaving the humanity period; plus the appropriate entries from reference from the index. Sections One and Two are in my office, that’s historical precedents from the first indications of human civilization up through the widespread use of writing. Then it’s divided by cultural region and civilization-”

Meirvaldis gently led her into her office, letting her talk on about her life’s work, and got her to lie down on the couch and give him her keys.

* * *

_“An entire month,”_ Alfeo Bottegante hissed. “One _entire month,_ and still you tell me that you can find _nothing!_ ”

The _camorristi_ that he’d assigned to find his daughter after her disappearance over Easter stood in silence.

“No ransom,” he muttered to himself, stalking back and forth across the room. “No threats. No communications. That _bastard!_ ”

Bottegante whirled to face his men.

“What do we have on Agresta?” he demanded.

“Just about what we had before, sir,” the man in charge of the operation told his boss. “His name, his address, that he was married with a nephew, and that he’s very important, but has never been bribed. The mayor’s office knows him, and he’s seen often in Rome. We placed him in the Vatican all day Easter Sunday.”

“What about the ex-wife, Gianluca?”

“She’s Sicilian,” Gianluca said. “I spread her description around, and-”

He cut himself off, and Bottegante glared.

 _“What?”_ he snapped.                                                   

“The Mafia families we have contacts with- they were certain I was asking about _La Diavola_.”

The Camorra boss stopped his pacing abruptly.

“A superstition,” he said flatly.

Gianluca stared straight ahead.

“They all swear she’s real. They say she never dies, no matter what you do to her, and whoever she goes after is _destroyed._ One contact used to be one of Girolamo Corvi’s men, and he gave me an address.”

“Ghosts do not have addresses.”

“But _La Diavola_ does- and, sir, it’s just outside Palermo. On a hill. An old Roman villa.”

Bottegante looked at him, long and hard.

“It seems a bit too much of a coincidence, sir,” Gianluca pointed out.

“Get a name for _La Diavola_ ,” Bottegante ordered after a few moments. “And find out who _else_ Agresta is related to. I am _getting_ my daughter back from him, or revenge for her.”  

* * *

Irene very nearly collapsed on the floor of the court hall with relief as Eglantine tackled her knees.

 _“Mum,”_ she whispered, clinging tightly.

“Lana, Lana, oh God,” Irene murmured, clutching her close. “It’s okay, I’m here, we’re going home. Are you alright?”

Eglantine sniffed and held up her wrist, showing the fairy protection bracelet.

“I didn’t take it off,” she told her mother, voice quavering. “Just like you said. But I’m so _hungry,_ the food moves away when I try and take it _-_ ”

“We’ll get a lot of food when we leave,” Irene promised, and a ripple of movement on the edge of her vision caught her attention.

Reynard Fox stepped out of the crowd, and Irene took a few hasty steps back, pulling her daughter with her.

 _“Stay away from us!”_ she demanded; but Reynard kept coming-

And suddenly Arthur was between him and her.

Reynard froze.

“Your Majesty,” he said after a moment, his smile hard and cold and creeping. “What an unexpected surprise.”

Irene could see nothing of Arthur but his cloaked back, but the line of his shoulders was set and stiff.

“Mr. Fox,” he replied, voice just as cold. “It was an unexpected surprise to find that you had _kidnapped_ one of my people.”

“My _daughter-_ ”

 _“You have no proof,”_ Arthur snarled. “And I have more of a claim to her than _you._ ”

“A good day to you, King England,” a new voice cut in, before Reynard could say anything further.

Arthur and Reynard turned, and Irene looked over.

“That’s the _Queen,_ ” Eglantine whispered to her.

“Queen Nicnevin,” Arthur replied stiffly, and did not bow.

“I am curious, England,” the Queen said from her throne. “Why you feel the need to disturb the tranquility of Our court with my guest.”

Irene heard Arthur mutter: _“Shit!”_ under his breath.

“And _I_ am curious, Good Neighbor,” he answered. “Why you have accepted Reynard Fox as a guest, when he clearly comes with a stolen human child.”

“He claimed the child as his,” she said dismissively. “This happens; I saw no reason to dispute it, as she is already known to the Small Ones.”

 _Ainsel,_ Irene realized suddenly. They knew her because of the little fairies, and took that relationship as proof-

“And I claim this child as _mine,_ ” Arthur declared. “For I have a greater claim to her than any but her mother.”

* * *

The time between waking and the start of session was usually relatively calm. Yes, people were sometimes rushing for breakfast and people were always getting last-minute work done, but usually, it was a bit relaxing.

Today was nothing of the sort, because Cuba was having breakfast in the communal dignitaries’ dining area. The room had gone quiet as he walked in, Zacarías trailing behind him, and had picked back up slowly, clearly with added strain.

Zacarías was trying very hard not to stare down the people that kept looking at them like they thought no one would notice.

“How can you stand this?” he asked his father quietly.

“Had worse,” Cuba answered, as laid-back as ever. “Only happening because they realized their customs don’t have to hold. They’ll come around.”

“Are you going to talk to the others?”

Zacarías had been tasked with fielding the phone calls and text messages and e-mails of the other Nations since his father’s ascendancy, which mostly meant ignoring the calls until they went to voicemail and deleting anything on any device in any inbox.

“I think you should.”

Cuba shrugged a little and finished the last of his breakfast.

“Speaking of,” he said, inclining his head in the direction of a woman walking towards them. Zacarías only placed her as Director Beilschmidt, whom he’d previously seen only in the staff picture packet he’d put together before getting on the flight to New York, after she’d sat down in the third chair at the table like there was no question of her right to be there.

“I have a piece of decorum that people who get paid more than me to be very polite are _insisting_ be handled _immediately;_ and because it’s a stupid thing to worry about in the face of everything else-”

There was a sort of vicious light in her eyes Zacarías was a little worried to recognize. He’d seen it some, with the revolutionaries. It was the look of someone who was winning a battle no one else even knew was being fought. Also, it was look of someone who hadn’t slept nearly enough in the last couple of twenty-four hour periods.

“-and because I am wholly and enthusiastically in favor your drive to self-determination, _you’re_ going to decide on your new stylings. The people who handle these things are waffling under trying to decide if they should keep calling you _‘The Esteemed Republic of Cuba, Marco Echemendia’_ or switch to _‘His Excellency Marco Echemendia, President of the Republic of Cuba’_.”

Zacarías’s father smiled widely.

“Tell them it’s _‘His Esteemed Excellency Marco Echemendia, Nation and President of the Republic of Cuba’_. I’m both, and they’re not taking that from me.”

The Director matched his smile.

“Excellent. Go see everyone before the meeting, will you?”

* * *

Tai arrived at his usual time to the café with Eun and his friends, and was immediately set upon by the students.

“It’s probably the last time we’re going to see you!” Eun said. “Just let us do this.”

So Tai smiled and laughed and talked his way through congratulations and farewells and rounds of coffee and pastries he felt like he should pay for, but, as he kept telling himself, it was a present.

“How long is the flight back to… Amsterdam?” one of them asked.

“Like eleven hours in the plane and a bunch more in airports,” Tai told her. “It’s going to be _terrible._ I have no idea why some people do this sort of thing for a living.”

The young woman smiled at him and elbowed Eun. A couple of the other students started looking at each other knowingly.

“What?” Tai demanded.

“We _may_ have gotten you another present,” Eun said blandly, and pulled a package out of his bag. “It’s for the flight, so don’t open it now. The card’s okay for whenever though, that’s our contact information and stuff.”

“Wow- thanks,” Tai said. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“What, you thought you were getting out of talking to us by leaving the country? No way.”

* * *

In deference to Cardiff city ordinances, Cassiel was doing his first prototype demonstration on the grounds of one of Wales’s country properties. This was a Production, involving two separate cars- one driven by Cassiel’s translator, Payton, stuffed full of equipment and tools and blueprints and other useful items. The second was Øystein and Ásdís, carting a cooler, two picnic baskets for lunch, and the folding chairs.

“Remember when I said Serafina DiAngeli was suspicious,” Ásdís said suddenly on the drive there.

“Did you?” Øystein asked.

Ásdís frowned.

“I’m certain I did-”

“I know you were _thinking_ it,” Øystein amended. “I just don’t think you actually said it out loud.”

“I was right,” she continued. “We assumed she came to the wedding with the Italians, but Italy has no records of her. Nor do Monaco, Switzerland, France, or Austria, which are the other main candidates. She wasn’t even on the invitation list. She has no passport, no known addresses, and no accounts I could find and trace, monetary or online. No one has ever heard of her. No one has ever reported anything stolen in the quantities that she’s provided Cass. Yet her money is good, and there’s not a hint of illegality about anything- besides the fact that _she does not exist._ ”

Øystein took a good long stretch of country highway to consider this.

“You think we’re being scammed,” he said eventually, as they pulled onto Wales’s property. There were two cars parked far ahead of them, and Cassiel and Serafina and Payton had the demonstration rig mostly set up. It stretched across the better portion of a field.

“I would say so,” Ásdís said. “Only it doesn’t feel like we’re being exploited.”

They got the chairs set up where Cassiel told them too and everyone settled down, Cassiel going on about science things Øystein didn’t actually understand despite having helped _build_ half this thing- it was quantum mechanics, or something like that, this working would prove the viability of magic and natural forces working to supplement each other in structures much larger, like the spaceships he so wanted to build.

Cassiel got the activation program running, and initiated. Everyone’s ears popped violently under the sudden pressure as the moving portion of the rig shot off towards the end of the field too fast for anyone to follow, trailing light that blinded them to anything else as they and their chairs were flung outwards, because Cassiel _still_ had yet to learn about ‘safe distance’.

He, of course, was on his feet before everyone else, dashing for the other end of the field to examine the end result. They could all see him start vibrating in excitement as he shouted _“IT WORKED IT WORKED IT WORKED-”_

And Serafina DiAngeli had a smile with an edge of amused secrecy that Ásdís simply could not trust.

* * *

 

The rousing success of the _Germanen für Landesstolz_ ’s Easter event was welcome, Elke told herself. The phone calls and emails and paperwork and the new Berlin office being much, much to crowded with actual party members, prospective employees, and casual drop-ins coming ‘just to look’ was the price they paid for support and name recognition. 

At least she had an office with a door, even if it was tiny and she didn’t actually want to close it for fear of sending the wrong message.

“Excuse me.”

Elke looked up sharply from the forms she was filling out to see a middle-aged man in a stylish suit.

“Fadri Rüegg is doing employment interviews,” she told him. “Other door.”

“I already have a job,” he said, and handed her a business card.

She had to do a double-take to make sure she was actually seeing what she was seeing.

The card had the German coat of arms embossed in gold, and it proclaimed the man in front of her to be Philipp Kreuze, Private Secretary, from the Office of the _Bundeskanzlerin_.

“What can I do for you, _Herr_ Kreuze?” she asked faintly, mouth dry.

“Provide a few moments of your time,” Philipp said, shutting the door and taking the only other chair in the room.

Elke hastily cleared the paperwork away, self-conscious of the clutter and the trashcan she’d been executing a careful balancing act with the last few days instead of emptying out.

“There are some concerns in my office about the nature of your organization-”

“We’re not Nazis!” Elke blurted, and immediately wished she was somewhere else, where it wouldn’t matter that nerves tripped her up.

Philipp’s mouth pursed into a thin, judging line.

“That may be,” he told her calmly.

Was she supposed to talk? What was she supposed to say why was he here were they being investigated was she supposed to let him keep talking _he wasn’t talking_ -

“There’s a big difference between hatred and national pride,” Elke continued, trying not to sound frantic, and oh God, she sounded really stupid didn’t she? She was messing this up. “There’s plenty of places where they’re completely not the same thing, it’s just the Nazis happened _here,_ and I- we don’t think we should let fascists and mass murderers that sort of power anymore. Germany is a great place, and people shouldn’t be ashamed or scared to say so and be proud they’re German, which is why we’re doing this. The charity work and lobbying platforms and everything, because if you love something you take care of it and _we_ love being German so we’re going to help people and take care of as many as we can-”

“Then why _Germanen_?” Philipp asked. “Why not _Deutschen_?”

“There’s a branch that does Germany, which I’m in charge of, and one that does Austria, which Fadri runs. _Deutschen_ ’s too narrow, _Deutschen_ is just Germany-the-country and besides that there’s a, a _type,_ you know- big, blonde, built-”

Philipp snorted, like he was trying hard not to laugh.

“-there’s an ethnic type attached to _Deutschen_ , and that’s not what we’re about. The German people are people who _live_ in Germany, and Austria, and Switzerland if the Swiss Germans will have us, wherever they might have been born or their parents or grandparents or whatever came from, not whatever construction of physical features you’re going to designate as a ‘race’ or an ‘ethnicity’, because I think we should well past using a standard like that for citizenship and national belonging, especially since those’ve got a bunch of other assumptions about religion and language and family structures and all that wrapped up along with the physical and-”

Rambling, she was rambling, she really needed to get speaking lessons or something, maybe someone else to talk for her, she should tell Fadri to get a press secretary or something-

“- _Germanen_ isn’t that. It doesn’t have to be that. We can make it about where your heart is, and not anything else.”

“If you’re not for ‘Germany-the-country’,” Philipp said, and Elke realized that she’d completely missed the fact that he’d been writing in a notebook as she spoke, taking diction. His pen was poised over the paper, two lines down from her last words. “Then are you for Germany-the-idea? Perhaps German _ies_ -the-idea?”

“No,” Elke told him firmly. “We’re for Germans-the-people.”

Philipp shut his notebook and actually smiled a little. 

“I think my office will be pleased to hear that,” he said, standing. Elke quickly followed suit. “It was a pleasure meeting you, _Frau_ Bastian.”

“You too, _Herr_ Kreuze,” she said, and started to open the door for him, only to jerk suddenly to a halt while the man who’d been about three inches from the wood backed up. “Oh sh- sorry, sorry, just a second, I had a surprise meeting I didn’t forget we’d scheduled lunch, who’s your friend?”

 _“Heinrich Beilschmidt_ ,” Philipp Kreuze said forebodingly. “ _What_ are you doing here?”

* * *

Cuba walked into the Nations’ meeting room, hands tucked at the small of his back.

Spain immediately grabbed him by the shoulders and _stared_ at him from an uncomfortably close distance, seemingly searching for words. Marco pushed him away, gently, only to have the man give him a forlorn look like he simply could not comprehend what he was seeing.

France was more visibly agitated, pacing around the room, wringing his hands.

“What were you _thinking?_ ” he burst out. “You _can’t_ just- We are _Nations,_ Cuba, we are not _humans!_ Governments are something we participate _in,_ not something we _lead!_ ”

“ _‘By the people, for the people’_ ,” America muttered from the mostly-empty table. For this special session, many of the world’s leaders had ordered their Nations to stay home, everyone united in a silent fear.

“Did you even _think_ about how this would affect the rest of us?” New Zealand demanded. “None of my neighbors were allowed to come, because their bosses were too scared about them getting _Ideas-_ ”

Cuba held up one finger.

“And haven’t we all heard that before?” he asked. “They’ll get over it, and probably be more careful about what they do in the bargain.”

“Keeping autonomy and following orders with humans is a delicate balancing act,” India snapped, hot and angry. “And I’ve been playing it for _millennia_ longer than you! Don’t you _tell me_ that any of them will _actually_ bother to _stop_ and _consider-_ ”

“Better than suffering under bad leadership,” Cuba shot back. “Haven’t been around as long as you, but I’ve seen enough countries and Nations break under a government that didn’t think they had to care! I wasn’t going to wait around for _another_ coup! Done _enough_ tempting fate, that way. Out of it now, and I’m not trying to work with _ruins._ ”

“If we were meant to run countries,” Denmark said nervously. “Then why do we have the- the following-orders compulsion? Find a decent human and make _them_ -”

“Shut up,” Cuba told him. “We live every day of our lives _hating_ it, don’t we? And you’re telling me that after thirteen years of being human, of _really knowing_ what it was like not to have it, that I- or _anybody-_ should _accept it?_ ”

“I’m just-”

“This way, I’ve got my free will, I’ve got my Nationhood, and my people have a leader who _can’t ignore_ when they’re hurting, and -God willing, it’ll never happen- will _always_ have a personal stake in their wellbeing even when all else fails. And if they _really_ hate me, well, they get themselves a popular leader and I’m shit outta luck when he tells me to step down! How is _any_ of that a bad thing?” 

“You _killed_ your _boss_ to get there!” America said, appalled.

Cuba snorted.

“Wasn’t much of one,” he said. “And I know _you_ haven’t had it, kid, but you can’t deny there’s some times when it would have been better if one of us _had_ killed our boss and taken over.”

* * *

On one hand, it was kind of a good thing that his boss had expressly forbidden him from attending the sudden UN meeting, because it meant he was available to get his grandson out of the country. On the other hand, it meant he wasn’t at the very important meeting.

“You’re _late,_ ” Yao said sternly as his grandson walked in the door, package tucked under his arm and copying information from a piece of paper into his phone contacts. He was a little glad the boy was leaving, and not proud of the fact. What sort of a grandfather was he, wanting to see him gone?

“I’m not late,” Tai told him. “I’m right on time, we’re still on schedule, I just need to go grab my luggage and stuff and we’re good to go.”

China sighed through his nose.

“What’s that?” he asked, tipping his head at the package.

Tai dropped it on the front entrance table and headed down the hall to the room he’d packed up the night before.

“Going away present!” he called. “From my _friends._ ”

Yao crossed his arms and started to shift his weight to stand more comfortably, and it was at that moment that the bomb inside the package exploded.

* * *

Südtirol was screaming.

Veneziano had no idea what was wrong. He hadn’t seen Valle d’Aosta or Friuli or Venezia Giulia since a few days after Easter, and he had a sick feeling that it wasn’t because they’d run off to their people, not when there hadn’t been any real news about separatist movements since before the holiday.

“Süd- Südtirol,” he pleaded. “Vittoria, what’s wrong-”

She threw herself at him and he grabbed her, sitting down on the floor of his kitchen heavily as she clutched at him and cried heaving sobs.

He stroked her hair and cradled her, whispering reassurance in Italian, then Venetian, to try and calm her down. When neither had any apparent effect, he switched to German.

Südtirol screamed something incoherent at the sound of the language she’d been insisting on her whole life and tried to hit him. As close as she was, it didn’t even really hurt.

_“Viktoria-”_

“M-, M-, _Margarethe_ ,” she managed.

“Who, _Suβling_?” he asked, remembering his husband’s (no, no, _Ludwig’s, **Germany’s,**_ he couldn’t and they couldn’t, he’d promised himself and now it was too late there was too much hurt and he was a traitor twice over to his marriage with the lies-) endearment for her.

 _“Trient!”_ Südtirol wailed.

Feliciano froze a moment. Trient? It made sense, Südtirol and Trient were grouped as one entity in the Italian state, but he’d never _seen_ a Trient. He’d thought Südtirol had been both.

“She vanished!” Viktoria cried. “They were _ours_ and then they heard about the nationalists in Germany and they _hate us-_ ”

“No no no no, Vittoria,” he said. She was too _young_ for this, too young to feel like her people didn’t want her. “ _Loro amano-_ ”

 _“Liar!”_ Südtirol screamed, pulling away and Feliciano was staring at her scrunched up eyes and tear-wet face when she tried to hit him again; but this time there was no impact because her flesh and bones boiled away before they struck, and he was alone on the floor of his kitchen, all of northern Italy his again.

* * *

Queen Nicnevin raised one eyebrow as the court erupted into a roll of muffled murmuring. England, from the corner of his eye, could see Reynard Fox inhale sharply; and the feel of Irene’s confusion and surprise colored his thoughts for a moment.

“A _greater_ claim?” the Queen asked. “On what basis, Your Majesty?”

“She is not entirely human!” Reynard Fox insisted, cutting in suddenly. “Your Majesty-”

He looked to Queen Nicnevin.

“It is _obvious!_ I have asked again and again of the child’s mother, and she forswears the possibility of fairer heritage than any common mortal! Yet she has had protective spells upon her all these years, and the child speaks with the Lesser Folk-”

The Fairy Queen turned her full attention to Irene, and England bristled, filled with protective urge.

“So a throwback, you name her,” the Queen said idly to Reynard. “That rare case of ancestral blood breeding true. A sort of subject of Ours.”

Reynard nodded stiffly.

“And her child is my child, so she is a subject twi-”

“Irene Walker has no heritage in the Hills!” England spat, stepping forward.

Everyone fell silent suddenly, and the guards discreetly stationed around the room shifted forward at his movement.

“And you are certain of this,” Queen Nicnevin said flatly, eyes narrowing.

England drew himself up, rage towering within him.

“Eglantine Walker’s father was Joseph Walker, husband of Irene Walker,” he said to the room. “Irene Walker is the daughter of Ezra and Isabel Walker, who adopted her soon after birth, without knowing the identity of her birth parents.”

Irene was a confused swirl in his mind, emotions running hot and high and the most distinct were fear and uncertainty and-

He _couldn’t_ regret this. He _wouldn’t_ let himself regret this.

“Her birth mother was Naomi Hackett,” England said, resolutely keeping his anxiety under control. “She died soon after giving birth, in a car accident, coming home from the hospital.”

He turned to look Reynard Fox directly in the face, gathering his power around him so the air was thick with it.

“And _she,_ Good Sirs and Ladies- _she was due to marry **me.**_ ”

Reynard stayed stunned for a moment, then when red briefly, then white as fear started to creep into his expression.

England stepped forward, and he stepped back.

“That is _my daughter_ you’ve been meddling with, Mr. Fox,” Arthur snarled. “And by the time we return home your names and face will be known to every pertinent law enforcement division in the world. You will _not_ harm others this way, ever again-”

“Your pardon, Majesty-” Reynard tried to say, clearly nervous, hands raised in supplication, and things _never_ should have gotten this far; Mr. Fox never should have been able to impersonate and kidnap with impunity-

And Queen Nicnevin, she should never have been able to accept him as a guest, she should have been able to know-

He had forgotten something. Something important, something essential, and _he should have thought of this earlier._

England realized, suddenly, that something was horribly wrong here- not simply in the Hills, but everywhere in this world, if things could have gotten this low.

“ _The Wild Hunt,_ Queen Nicnevin!” he said loudly, striding towards her throne. The Queen stood abruptly, expression turning suddenly to anger.

 _“The Wild Hunt!”_ Arthur demanded. “Where was it when Reynard Fox first took the shape of Joseph Walker? Where was it when he stole my granddaughter?”

He was nearly at the stairs that led to her throne. Irene and Eglantine were sticking close by, thank God.

 _“Where **were** they, Nicnevin!” _ he nearly roared. “They have a _duty_ to police the borders, to guard against the actions of traitors and oathbreakers, to hunt the violators of blood and hospitality and duty- _where was your husband!_ Has _he_ broken with his charge? Has the Jagdsprinz turned traitor? _Where was Gwyn ap Lludd!_ ”

The Queen was furious, he could see it, and he and his were not guests, had been recognized merely as visitors. They had no protections here, but-

**_“Where was the Erlkönig!”_ **

_“The Erlkönig is **dead!** ” _she screamed; and yes, they were in trouble now.

* * *

There was silence in the Nation’s meeting room after Cuba left, partially because no one was certain what to do next.

“Well,” India huffed after a bit, leaning back in the chair he’d taken. “He’s made _quite_ the mess of things.”

“Things change,” Iran said with good humor. “But not terribly much. I find it interesting, how the cities of Mesopotamia I knew acted as rulers sometimes, and now thousands of years of demotion later we come to this.”

“There’s a lot of different ideas between that and now,” Spain pointed out worriedly.

Iran just smiled at him.

“Different ideas can serve the same purpose.”

“ _Should_ we have been?” Germany asked quietly. “Ki- Taking over from bosses who were bad?”

“And how’re we supposed to judge that?” America demanded. “How much do they mess up, and _what_ do they mess up, before we drag them out back and shoot them? That’s _no way_ to run a government.”

“But sometimes-”

“I have had governments killed for running badly,” Russia said firmly, smacking a hand down on the table. “As has France. And you know how well that went for us, yes? Sometimes, it works. Sometimes, armed revolution, murder, it makes things better. Most times, worse, or at least it does not change things.”

“We won’t know if things _could_ have been better if we’d deposed that leader or another,” Switzerland added. “So there’s no point thinking about it.”

“ _I’d_ do it,” Greece rasped. In the last few weeks he’d been waking, briefly, and finally seemed to have pulled together. Romano had brought him to New York and left him a week earlier, making nastily obtuse comments about how Naples was no place for weakness. Herakles was weak and shaky and hoarse, but things were tentatively getting better. “If there was any government worth the name, I’d take it over. To _make_ them fix it.”

“I would not,” Russia said. “I would never take over. Murder? Perhaps- if the one in question was very wrong, and very stupid, and very violent.”

He smiled humorlessly.

“We cannot kill people only for being wrong and stupid, yes? Sometimes even _they_ turn out less than terrible.”

“Oh?” Austria asked; and the rest of the room casually started paying more attention.

“Pajari,” Russia told them. “I would not have done what he did, letting Chechnya and others go.”

He spread his arms wide.

“But he did so, and was firmer on Kaliningrad, and told police and military in the east to watch well against violence and threats, and support vanished! People were prepared to fight, and now that some peace has been allowed Chechnya and Be… Belarus is simply another Russian territory, there will be no more bloodless arrangements. I have seen five of the new eastern Nations go up in smoke, since Easter. The rest will go soon.”

There was a following silence, a bit tense as the information was processed.

“I’m sorry about Natalya,” Hungary said, and it was awkward only for the timing of the placement, not the feeling behind it. “But… _about_ Kaliningrad?”     

* * *

“So do you have any idea what sort of a job you’re looking for?” Heinrich had asked as he and Armas entered the Berlin headquarters of _Germanen für Landesstolz_.

Armas had shaken his head, and answered that today was for walking around and scoping places out, looking for _‘Help wanted’_ signs and such before he committed to sending in applications anywhere; and the only thing Heinrich was worried about was that Elke would mind that his cousin was suddenly along for the _‘take a work break and not stress’_ lunch she’d made him schedule.

That was before Elke had nearly hit him with the door and Philipp Kreuze was staring straight at him, surprised for a moment but then his expression set into something like annoyance and something like anger and mostly very, very stern.

 _“Heinrich Beilschmidt_ \- _what_ are you doing here?” he demanded.

Heinrich tried to come up with something to say.

“I- I’m picking Elke up to have lunch?” he tried weakly.

“You two know each other?”Elke butted in, and he wished she hadn’t.

Philipp glared between the two of them before turning his attention back to Heinrich.

“If I _hadn’t_ just had a very informational meeting with _Frau_ Bastian,” he said. “I would be sorely tempted to drag you up to the Reichstag _right now_ and make you explain yourself.”

“I was trying to find a way to tell him without it- you _know_ how this would look.”

“I _do,_ ” Philipp said, and it felt laden with doom. “And if you’ll excuse me, I’m due back to report.”

 _“Please,”_ Heinrich begged. “Let me do it. Just tell him about what’s _actually_ going on here, not- _please._ ”

“If I ask tomorrow morning and he doesn’t know you were here-”

People were staring now; the passers-through simply interested and the party members wondering if they needed to intervene on their friend’s behalf.

“-I’m telling him.”

“Of course,” Heinrich said faintly. “Thank you.”

Everyone watched Philipp Kreuze leave, and then Elke crossed her arms over her chest.

“What was _that_ about?” she demanded.

“He- That was my father’s secretary,” Heinrich said.

 _“He was from the Bundeskanzlerin’s office!”_   Elke exclaimed.

“Yeah, I know.”

“What does your father _do?_ ” she asked, looking at him askance. “And you told me your father was Italian.”

“I’m not actually allowed to tell you what he does,” Heinrich admitted. “And that’s my Italian father, not my German one. They both do the same job, just for different governments. That’s how they met.”

“You have been _seriously_ holding out on us, Heinrich,” Elke said. “I’ve met your sister, she looked dangerous like she could kill someone, what is she, Special Ops or something? And who’s this?”

“She’s a _fencer_. This is my cousin, Armas; I’m going to help him look for jobs after lunch so he’s along for now.”

“Hello,” Armas said.

“What did _you_ do?” Elke asked suspiciously.

“Public relations,” he told her. “For the Swedish military.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“The Swedish military needed public relations?”

“I did a lot of things,” Armas said. “They just stuck me wherever they needed someone to help write for websites or pamphlets or press releases-”

“Does _everyone_ you’re related to work for some government somewhere?” Elke asked Heinrich, who didn’t realize it was a rhetorical question until she started talking again immediately; depriving him of the chance to say basically, yes, his entire family did government work.

“I want your résumé,” she told Armas.

“What?” he said, flustered. “No; no you don’t. If Heinrich’s father’s secretary was here you’ve got _enough_ trouble-”

“Why wouldn’t I want your résumé?” she asked. “We need public relations people. It sounds like you’ve done a lot; you’re out of work and we can pay you a living wage.”

Armas realized he’d talked himself into a corner. Heinrich shot him a sympathetic look.

“My- my brother is the guy who killed the Finnish Prime Minister two years ago,” he muttered. “Because he didn’t think the Prime Minister was doing right by his country. You don’t need that sort of complication.”

“ ** _Heinrich;_** your _family. What the **hell,**_ ” Elke said. “What’s so terrifying about your father, anyway?”

“He has a complicated relationship with German nationalism,” Heinrich answered carefully.

“What is _that-_ you know what, no, I’m done asking questions of you; _I don’t want to know._ You-”

She pointed at Armas.

“I’m going to go get Fadri, and then you’re going to tell him and me over lunch _exactly_ what you did with the Swedish military, and then you’re going send us your résumé when you get back to wherever you’re staying; and since you me already the single biggest thing we could have found in a background check when you could have lied and come up with something else, we’re probably going to hire you. Congratulations on your integrity.”

* * *

Lunch was marked less by food and more by Cassiel’s enthusiastic blabber. Serafina DiAngeli’s air of amused secrecy was growing stronger and stronger by the minute, Øystein and Ásdís watching in silent suspicion.

“-proof it _works_ now, so we can sell a few of the smaller products, with barely any of the ‘little extra’-”

Magic, he meant.

“-so we can build a capital base, enough to be comfortable with starting to produce our own things, then when we’ve made a name for ourselves we can go to governments about spaceflight-”

“Why go to the companies first?” Serafina DiAngeli asked. “Why not simply start producing? I know some factories for sale cheaply here in Wales, only slightly in disrepair. They will be easy enough to convert and fix up.”

“Factories,” Ásdís said before Cassiel could commit them to anything. “Cheaply. Tell me, Ms. DiAngeli, how is it that you finance us without having any legal identity or documented means of income?”

Everything went still, Cassiel a moment after everyone else as Payton signed her words to him.

“So we’ve come to that, then,” Serafina DiAngeli said, suddenly solemn.

“Yes,” Ásdís said.

Serafina DiAngeli sat up straighter.

“Tell me, Nations’ children,” she said. “Did your parents ever tell you of the Pict Invasion of 1963?”

* * *

 

Tai clutched the doorframe of the room he’d been living in these months in China in one hand and his luggage in the other and tried not pass out, dust and fumes making him cough, legs weak. It seemed too quiet in the aftermath of the explosion, everything distant and quiet, even though there were people screaming outside and downstairs.

The air in the apartment started to settle, building debris and torn photographs slowly falling to the floor.

“Grandfather?” Tai whispered.

From down the hall there was a heaving shift and some rubble slid down the destruction that had been the door area, and China, very carefully and deliberately, walked over to him, put a hand on his shoulder, and then they were in one of his other houses.

Tai shoved himself away from China and vomited all over the floor, shaking.

“Japan,” China said, and Tai frantically thought that his voice sounded exactly like his eyes, terrifyingly blank and distant and cool and he wasn’t going to look again, not at the unblinking unbreathing _bleeding-_

(Oh God the blood)

 _-thing_ that was supposed to be his Grandfather; that moved like a, a bad animatronic, jerky and stilted, a walking _corpse_ and _there were bits missing he’d seen bone-_

“Call him,” China continued. “He will get you home. The house in Chang’an.”

Never mind that Xi’an hadn’t been Chang’an in- in- Tai couldn’t remember, too long now, and he didn’t _know_ Japan’s number and he didn’t think China could give it to him if he asked and he didn’t want to hear that voice ever again.

Still shaking, he pulled out his phone and jabbed at it until it called.

“ _Bába,_ ” he gasped when he heard the other line pick up. “They tried to blow us up, it’s, it’s my fault they gave me the package and Grandfather’s _dead_ he told me to call Japan but I don’t. I don’t have his number.”

 _“Tai,”_ his father said, horrified.

“ _Bába **please.** ”_

“Where are you?” Zheng asked. “I’ll call him, where are you-”

“The house in Xi’an,” Tai told him, and he didn’t know if he hung up then or not because by the time he’d landed in Amsterdam and his parents were there waiting for him he’d come out of the shock, maybe, but he didn’t remember saying anything else or his father saying anything to him and he knew Japan had talked when he took him to the airport and put him on the plane home so the government couldn’t get to him, but he didn’t _remember._

* * *

Russia shrugged a bit.

“We will deal with Kaliningrad, of course,” he answered. “We must have our Navy.”

“And start a war while you’re at it?” Greece demanded. “Nobody needs that right now. The EU is in bad _enough_ shape without you sticking soldiers in the middle of i-”

He started hacking violent, dry and rasping and choking, and Monaco hastily shoved a water glass at him. He tried drinking, and gagged on the liquid, letting it fall from his mouth back into the glass. Part of it missed and splashed on the table, dripping to the floor.

“Should just tear the whole thing down,” he muttered bitterly.

“Just because it’s not working _now_ doesn’t mean it won’t ever,” France said, his tone making clear he was trying to talk Greece down. “Maybe we started out too big. We’ll catch up-”

“You should have _left_ it small!” Hungary snapped.

“Well we can’t downsize it _now-_ ”

“The fuck we can’t,” Romania spat. “Cut it up. Don’t make the little economies suffer with the big ones.”

France threw up his hands.

“But it’s _expensive_ and _hard_ to change currencies, and you have to leave time to let it sort itself out-”

“When better when everyone wants change and make it work! Chop it up into regional divisions, neighbors rely on neighbors, keep the loose borders and easy trade agreements but junk the Euro, it’s not doing us any good-”

“You can’t just _say_ that-” Denmark started to protest.

“It’s a good compromise,” Germany said quietly. Everyone stopped talking and looked at him.

“Between the people who want a loose EU and the ones who want it more like America’s states,” he elaborated. “That way, we keep the economics, and have tight regional relations- but we’re not held to the whole continent. All the pieces are tied together, but no one…”

He trailed off at everyone else’s thoughtful looks.

“A European Confederacy,” Spain mused.

* * *

Irene was reeling and England was furious and Eglantine was too young and it was only by good grace and luck and the law of repayment that was essential in this world where the Tylwyth Teg lived that they got out alive and unharmed.

The Queen was furious and the guards were coming and then there was Ly Erg, looking out from a hidden door behind the throne, and beckoning them to come.

England grabbed his daughter and granddaughter and _ran,_ vastly outpacing the guards and the Queen’s furious swipe to grab him, and dove through the doorway. Ly Erg closed it behind them, and sent a quick pulse of magic through it to seal the entrance.

“This passage leads to the stables,” he said. “Hurry.”

“But Odile-” Irene stared to say.

“Is safe with her sister,” Ly interrupted. “And I will meet with her once I have repayed this debt.”

They exited into the stables ahead of the orders from the Queen that they should be stopped. Ly had had three horses saddled, and helped Irene and Eglantine on to one before getting on his own.

England reached across from his own mount to touch Irene’s arm.

“As long as you hold on, a Tylwyth horse will never let you lose your seat.”

His daughter stared at him, but twisted the reins further around her hands.

Ly shouted an order to the horses that England didn’t catch and then they were galloping, running out from under the hill and down the slope to go up the other side of the valley, headed across the Hills.

“Where are we going?” England shouted over the wind and pounding of hooves.

“Der Berge Öster och Väster!” Ly yelled back. “Mother will never follow us there!”

Arthur had to admit that he was right.

They kept going until the twilight of the Hills faded into dawn, and the ground flattened some from hills to rolling steppe, where they slowed. A mountain range loomed ahead of them, closer than the horizon but not so close that they were near reaching it. On their right- to the south, Arthur decided- the low dark smear of the Jägerskov dominated.

“The Queen- your mother,” England said to Ly, tipping his head off to the side, towards the Wild Hunt’s forest. “She said the Erlkönig was dead.”

Ly’s face went shadowed, and filled with old pain.

“A monster,” he said quietly. “Large and darkly dull with claws and teeth like razors and greater power than any suspected. We were caught unawares, a long, long while ago, and my father fell before he could truly fight.”

They rode on in silence for a bit longer.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said for a lack of any other, more appropriate, response. “So the Hunt no longer rides?”

Ly shook his head.

“I was the Hunt’s Venerer, Master of Hound and Horse. The Hunt fractured without its Prince, and those that did not die fighting or fleeing the monster have long returned to the Hills, or Avalon, or Póli Thálassas or Kitezh on Buyan. There is no one who would return to our Hall and claim the position of Jagdsprinz. They will come if called- they are still the Hunt- but we wait on one who _will._ ”

* * *

_Someday,_ Ásdís swore. _I will find some way to get revenge on our parents for the lies and omissions they’ve made us live through._

They were driving back to Cardiff in silence. Øystein’s fingers where white around the wheel, and when he veered onto an exit it took until they pulled into a parking lot and Øystein hugged the steering wheel and dropped his head down on top for Ásdís to realize it hadn’t been the way to Cardiff.

“I thought we were done with this. I _really_ thought we were done with this. I thought our parents couldn’t _possibly_ have any more secrets from us, not after- Christmas.”

The bottom of Ásdís’s stomach dropped out at that. It would be a long time before she could think of Christmas as a happy thing.

“But they never told us. _Far_ taught me some about magic, after he learned I could. But he didn’t tell me about the fairies, or dragons, or the _demon._ He- He talks to trolls, did you know that? All my life, and he never told me, even when I could. We weren’t _safe_ but they let us think so and humanity was nearly _destroyed_ by a spacefaring genocidal race, and _everyone_ ’s memories were stolen so they wouldn’t retaliate once they were gone but our parents remembered and they never _told_ anyone-”

He was going faster now, edging into hysteria.

“And now they’re _back,_ because the want company among the stars! We’ve been caught up in it, and we can’t _tell_ anyone, we can’t tell our parents, they wouldn’t trust them _I_ don’t trust them there would just be a war and _humanity isn’t ready for that. We_ have to do this but people are going to _die_ there’s an ulterior motive _somewhere_ she- DiAngeli _sat there_ and _told us_ to our _faces_ that she led the invasion, that she was bent on taking everything for the Pict, and Cassiel just _let it slide,_ he-”

Øystein took a deep gulp of air and Ásdís was about to say something when he barreled on.

“-we _have_ to stay,Ásdís, _we can’t leave,_ we _can’t_ leave humanity to Cassiel, _we can’t walk away._ We’ll become accomplices and the world may well burn and our names will be cursed but it’s better than leaving it all to the man who’s too ignorantly arrogant to realize he’s proud and vain and that there are things you _just don’t touch_ and he’s gotten people _killed_ and he’s still going doesn’t he care about _anything_ but what he wants to know we have to stay and we have to stop him as much as he can and _people are going to die_ and it will be _our_  fault people will die like _Vasco-”_

He lunged for the door and flung it open, half falling out of the car as he retched onto the asphalt bellow. Ásdís leaned across the seat divide and held him, shaking.

 _“God,”_ Øystein whispered. “We can’t get out.”

* * *

Hanna Schumacher kept the forum up on her computer the entire day, refreshing every five minutes to keep tabs on the conversation.

At about nine o’clock, a forum user whose little stats counter under their avatar betrayed them as being fairly unactive posted.

                _@Anthemion @Costus16 @Varicella @IneffiableSyntactics @Nike9_

_You serious about not letting Germany get his filthy hands on the government and making our country go to shit? I know people. There’s a bunch of nationalists who’ve no love for Nazi scum, spend most of their time denouncing them. They’ve got power. We could do this. We could put a stop to this before it starts._

_We could save Germany._

One refresh later and all five had replied in the affirmative, with a couple other users saying they’d help if they could.

Hanna, eating a late take-out dinner, typed back one handed:

                _@Elbast4Ge.stolz_

_Email me; I can coordinate._

_Let’s do this._       

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everybody remember the Paint It White movie? Yeah, THOSE aliens. THOSE Picts.


	21. 2047: September (2)

_Excerpts from the article headlining the Economics section of Zeit Online on 1 September 2048 (Translated from the original German):_

_‘…since May, public opinion in Germany has been overwhelmingly in favor. A recent survey of EU countries found that Germany has the highest approval rating of the proposed ‘European Confederacy’ plan, followed closely by Austria, France, Poland, England, and Denmark. As it currently stands, the plan for the Confederacy would pair Germany and Austria; as well as apply selected portions of the Bilateral Treaties between Switzerland and the EU and Liechtenstein’s membership in the European Economic Area to the Germany-Austria division. Potential revisions also add Denmark to this area…’_

_‘…for comment, Press Secretary Armas Väinämöinen released a prepared statement: “Germanen für Landesstolz is fully in favor of the European Confederacy plan. More closely-focused economic ties between our German-speaking countries will create a stronger unity and a greater sense of responsibility to our fellow citizens.” Some political analysts believe that the GfL’s sanction of the Confederacy plan has played a major part in its continued public support. In response, all other nationalist groups issued press releases strongly against the Confederacy plan; a few even advocating the use of violence…’_

* * *

_15 September 2048_  
 _United Nations, New York City  
_ _8:09 AM EDT (2:09 PM CEST)_

“Lutz, this is a disgustingly early start, even for you,” Gilbert told his brother, leaning on the doorframe connecting the rooms given them in the UN. “The meeting’s not for another two hours or something.”

“About an hour and fifteen minutes,” Ludwig corrected him, staring at the sheet of paper on the desk in front of him.

“You got up and got dressed and got breakfast and got everything together for the meeting _with all of your re-checks_ ; I know you did, I saw you, so what the hell are you doing that isn’t for the meeting that’s so important you got up at six?”     

Ludwig ignored him and picked up his pen, carefully starting to write.

“Lutz, c’mon, tell me.”

“Please go away.”

“Ludwig. Ludwig. Ludwiiiii _iiiiiiiig-_ ”

“If you keep doing that you’re going to wake up the diplomatic corps!” Ludwig hissed at him. “They’ve been working hard the last couple months- let them sleep!”

“Now, see, _I_ don’t buy that,” Gilbert said, snagging the room’s extra chair and plopping down in it so he could read off his brother’s desk, legs sticking out from under the chair arms and his arms folded across the top of the backrest. “Because if you were _really_ trying to keep the comfort and diligence of our diplomatic corps into account, then _you_ wouldn’t have been up and banging around at _six in the morning._ ”

“I was not _banging,_ ” his brother insisted. “I do things _quietly._ ”

“I _live_ _with you_ , _bruderchen_ , don’t lie to me. Own your noise.”

 Ludwig grumbled incomprehensibly and his next word had a forceful little motion at the end of it.

Gilbert leaned forward, trying to see what he was writing, but Ludwig covered it with his arm and glared at him slightly.

He raised one eyebrow in response, and waited patiently until Ludwig was almost done with whatever the next thing we was writing was.

“Rémy texted while you were out,” he mentioned casually. “He said that Zell might have started active labor contractions- nobody could tell yet- so they’re getting ready to go to the hospital.”

Ludwig’s head shot up and Gilbert snatched the paper, bolting back to his own room and shutting the door behind him.

_“GILBERT!”_

“ _Knew_ he didn’t care about the corps,” Gilbert said to himself, and took a look at the paper he’d stolen.

His brother had tried to title it. The top of the sheet of paper, official stationary, had a few crossed out attempts before simply reading: _‘Talk with Feliciano’_.

Under it was written _‘Known:’_ ; and then three bullet points. One for _‘Cristoforo says he renounced our marriage’_ ; the second for _‘Feliciano said it wasn’t my fault’_ ; and, finally, _‘He refuses to talk to me about it’_.

Below that was _‘Possibilities:’_ , with an entire second list.

_‘Religious crisis- why would he not discuss?’_

_‘Reaction to trauma- ???’_

_‘Why won’t he just TELL me?’_

Gilbert opened the door between the rooms.

“Tell me if you need help cornering the asshole,” he told Ludwig, handing back the paper.

Ludwig took it carefully.

“He’s not-”

“He’s _hurt_ you, and he’s the last person who ever should,” Gilbert said, voice steely. “I have the right to call him whatever the fuck I want.”

Ludwig just looked at him sadly and went back to his desk to keep adding to the paper.

“ _He’s_ hurting,” he replied, pen lifting from the sheet and starting to move aimlessly, nervously, in his fingers. “I don’t know why or how but he _is_ and he says it’s not my fault but if it’s not then-”

He closed his hand on the pen to stop the extraneous movement.

“I love him,” Ludwig said, voice quavering. He took a deep breath. “I can’t think of a single thing I wouldn’t forgive him for and absolutely nothing he could ever do would make me _stop_ loving him; so if he thinks whatever-it-is is _his_ fault-”

Gilbert quietly wrapped an arm around his younger brother’s shoulders and the other around his chest, chin atop his head.

“He forgave me _so much_ , Gilbert. Why would he think I wouldn’t do the same?”

“I dunno Lutz. Sometimes people are like that.”

“Zell’s having her baby sometime today and we should be there together,” Ludwig continued. “So I have to talk to him after the meeting but what if when we finally talk he-”

Gilbert waited for him to work past the knot in his throat and the twist in stomach he could feel in the tension across his shoulders.

“What if he wants a separation, Gilbert?” Ludwig whispered.

“Then he’s a fool, too,” was all the comfort he could give.

* * *

_15 September 2048_  
 _Berlin, Germany  
_ _3:00 PM CEST (9:00 AM EDT)_

“Thank you again for coming out,” Heinrich said, fingering his coffee cup.

Tobias Stahlman clapped a hand down on the table to keep the spare napkins from blowing away in the strong wind that had been blowing periodically all day.

“It’s fine- I still can’t _believe_ that your producer wouldn’t let you take the time off and go to New York.”

“We’re having a really good run and it’s the last week of the opera,” Heinrich told him. “She wants me around. I get it.”

“But it’s your first nephew!” Tobias protested. “If _my_ boss hadn’t let me take leave for-”

“Your boss is our _rabbi,_ Toby. He would _never_ have done that.”

“Well if he _wasn’t-_ ”

“Armas!” Heinrich called. “Over here!”

Tobias stood as the other man approached to shake hands over the table.

“Tobias Stahlman. Good of you to come out on the short notice,” Tobias thanked him. “But I was running out of ways to distract him. He’d gone back to trying to thank me for coming again.”

Armas’s mouth quirked up at that.

“Well, I had the day free. Armas Väinämöinen.”

Tobias was most of the way to sitting again when he looked at Heinrich and scowled.

“I was _going_ to ask if this was one of your _actual_ cousins or one of your _cousins_ ; but I guess I don’t need to. Nobody related by blood to your father would be working for the GfL.”

“Am I really that noticeable?” Armas asked despondently.

“With a name like _that,_ yeah. Where are you from? No, wait-” he said as he saw the twist of Armas’s expression. “Don’t tell me, it’s another one of those ‘our-families-are-complicated’ things and you’re going to spend ten minutes talking about your triple citizenship and it won’t actually explain anything.”

“I didn’t know you knew Cassiel,” Armas said.

“He’s Sweden and Finland’s son, Tobias,” Heinrich told his friend in an undertone so no one else in the outside seating area of the café would hear. “And Armas, Cassiel gets everywhere, are you really surprised he’s met him?”

“Well I thought all your Jewish college friends were from Köln; why should I think that Cassiel went to Köln?”

“The _cathedral?_ ” Heinrich suggested dryly.

“You know Øystein doesn’t believe me when I tell him you do stuff like that.”

“So talk to Nia.”

“You know I’d never actually been to Charlottenburg before today,” Tobias cut in before his two companions could go off about their families any more and leave him behind. “It’s nice. I was hoping that it wouldn’t be as dry as it’s been in Köln, but I’m pretty sure it’s actually _worse_ here. And you added the wind too.”

“It’s supposed to rain this evening,” Armas offered. “If you’re staying that long.”

Tobias elbowed Heinrich.

“Yeah, I’m seeing one of his last performances before I head back. Thanks for the warning.”

* * *

_15 September 2048_  
 _Beth Israel Hospital, New York City  
_ _9:30 AM EDT (3:30 PM CEST)_

Rémy was sorely tempted to snatch the file portfolio from his wife and hide it somewhere.

“She needs something to distract herself with,” Nia whispered to him. “Just leave it.”

The maternity ward at Beth Israel was well-appointed, and not as quiet as Rémy had expected. There were people in and out, getting things set up, and every time Zell stopped to wait through a contraction he froze as well, waiting for something to go wrong.

“You _are_ leaving once the anesthesiologist gets here?” Zell asked when the latest one had finished. “No last-minute backing out?”

“Don’t worry, I’m dragging him out with me,” Nia said. “I won’t let him second-guess his hospital anxiety problems.”

“I _want_ to,” Rémy told his wife again, sounding contrite.

“And you don’t have to,” Zell reminded him firmly. “You have enough problems with regular doctor’s appointments- it’ll no one any good if you’re in here with that. There are doctors, I’ll be fine.”

“I’m going to stay long enough to see the anesthesia work,” Rémy said. “I can manage that.”

Nia clapped him on the back.

“And then I’ve got him from there. I’ll keep him occupied. He brought his computer and I packed some of those romance novels _Vati_ doesn’t know the two of you snuck off with yet-”

_“Nia!”_

“Well he _doesn’t._ And I’m not telling him, you get to do that.”

The anesthesiologist arrived and Rémy made a beckoning motion with his hand for the file portfolio.

“Give. I can’t leave that in here with you. You’re not even supposed to take those home.”

“Just a minute- _shit. **Shit;**_ this is one of the ones Miervaldis is supposed to have-”

“This is what happens when you work up until the last minute, Zell,” Nia scolded, and took the file and the portfolio. “Rémy, text him on Zell’s phone and tell him I’m coming over with this stuff.”

As Rémy dug his wife’s phone out of the carry bag his laptop and the books were in, Nia inserted herself in the sightline he had to Zell’s hospital bed as the anesthesiologist started to work, blocking his view of the needles. He let her do it without comment, and kept his eyes on the phone and bag.

By the time he had, with great care and deliberation, returned the phone its pocket in the bag, the anesthesiologist was done and Zell was starting to slip into unconsciousness.

Nia tucked the portfolio under her arm and held out her free hand slightly. Rémy grabbed it tightly and picked up the bag with the other hand, and she led him out to the waiting room, promising to be back soon.

* * *

Sonnehilde Lavinia Costa Beilschmidt got on a New York City bus at 9:52 AM Eastern Daylight Time.

The meeting began at 9:55 AM Eastern Daylight Time, because it was running late since Ludwig Beilschmidt, who had still been agonizing over the possibilities of the post-meeting conversation with his husband, had taken some extra minutes to collect himself before he had to officially begin the session.

At 3:58 and 36 seconds PM Central European Summer Time, Hanna Schumacher tabbed onto an international news website and sat, waiting.

* * *

_15 September 2048_  
 _United Nations, New York City  
_ _9:59 AM EDT (3:59 PM CEST)_

Miervaldis backed off to one of the meeting room walls, doing his best to be inconspicuous. Despite the extra time he’d had to set up, without Zell around and the meeting’s lateness due to Germany’s distractedness, things were still incomplete. There were papers missing, and neither he nor David could find them.

It had to be some supernatural power of Zell’s, to always know where everything was in the office. He spared a moment to think testily on her parents’ marital troubles, as well. _Everyone_ had seen the way Germany had been looking at Veneziano- like he was expecting his spouse to yell at him if he got too close. The way they’d been avoiding looking at each other from previous meetings was much better for everyone else’s work, even if it wasn’t helping _them._

He thought maybe he’d have to stay the meeting and keep an eye on this situation.

That decided, he took his phone out of his pocket to check the text he’d felt the vibration alert for earlier, tuning out Germany’s beginning-of-meeting speech.

The phone said it was from Zell, but the message read: _‘Hey it’s Rémy, Zell took some of her work home and brought it along to the hospital and turns out it has stuff she says you need. Sent Nia over with everything to return it.’_

Miervaldis frowned and tried not to sigh too loudly. Hopefully, if Zell ever had another baby, it would run more smoothly than this.

 _‘Thanks,’_ he replied. _‘I’ll go down in a minute. Meeting’s started late. Tell me when the baby comes.’_

“Germany?” someone asked, concern tinging the question.

No matter how much he racked his brains later, Miervaldis would never remember who had spoken then.

What he would never forget was the vacant, distant stare Germany had, and the uncanny stillness of a body not tensed against motion, but simply completely without it.

“Germany!”

There was no reaction to his name, and his eyes were blank but not closed, or wide- it looked like someone had stopped time only for him and he was frozen where he stood; or as though someone had slipped a hand in between his words and stolen his breath and soul without anyone noticing and now they were simply waiting for him to-

He moved, finally, minutely, throat and mouth as if to speak; but no sound came and the only thing Miervaldis could think was that it looked like one of movies that had warnings for gore, where one of the supporting cast got impaled in the gut and suddenly were coughing up blood except that there was no wheezing or coughing here; just a sudden well of red pushing through the slight part of his mouth and running down his chin and throat and then, he fell.

The words he’d heard before used to describe this also seemed wrong- _‘folded up’_ seemed to imply something orderly, _‘collapse’_ something with exhaustion; _‘faint’_ was too emotional and _‘buckle’_ was a serious injury, a wound to the leg or knee-

 _'Crumple’_ , perhaps, yes, _‘crumple’_ , that was it; Germany crumpled to the floor because _‘crumple’_ was something like balling up a piece of paper, the empty space between the folds and surface features taken up by pressure exerted on a fragile exterior and the Nation of the Federal Republic of Germany was _empty_ inside; that was the only way to explain the sudden blankness and the blood and the uncanny silence of it all but the worst of all, the thing that was just _wrong wrong **wrong,**_ was the lack of _presence_ in him as he sprawled there, the gravitational pull of attention of _‘Nation: Important’_ that he had become attuned to.

And he should- he should _something,_ Miervaldis knew; this was something like his job, he was supposed to manage things at the UN for the Nations and surely this counted? So he tapped at his phone until he finally managed to open the Internet browser app and shakily typed in _‘Germany breaking news’_ and refreshed the search until he got answers.

* * *

_15 September 2048_  
 _Berlin, Germany  
_ _4:00 PM CEST (10:00 AM EDT)_

The coffee was gone and conversation topics were starting to lag again, but if they stayed they could have an early dinner-like thing, or he could invite them both along to his apartment, Heinrich hadn’t decided which to suggest yet, when the first explosion happened.

The immediate illogical thought was _‘lightning strike’_ because it wasn’t time yet for it to be raining and the sky was currently cloudless but thunder was the only noise loud enough to really compare.

But there was suddenly a wall of fire and smoke in the sky over by the downtown area, fire bright and red-orange-yellow-white in the roiling black smoke and right after the first explosion there was a second, off to the side; and just when he thought it was all done there was the _PBUUUUH_ of a gas main lighting and the fire burned white-hot and-

“I know where that is,” Heinrich said suddenly, surprising himself- but this was _his_ city, he’d grown up here; and with Germany for a father he _knew-_

“That was the Reichstag,” he said, and the café and the passersby were still working up to screaming and panic because but right now it was shock and staring. “And the Chancellery. The- it’s, it’s Tuesday they’re-”

“Everyone was _in session,_ ” Armas finished for him, horrified. “They- _God_ , Heinrich-”      

And Heinrich, for a moment, forgot to breath.

* * *

When the city finally stopped burning, in the late-night rains that had been forecast for hours earlier and so, of course, arrived after everyone had decided it wasn’t coming; and the entire situation had been picked over and investigated and analyzed, the progress of the 2048 Berlin Fire would be found as thus:

At 4:00 PM CEST exactly, a professionally-made black-market bomb went off in the Reichstag, smuggled through the basement to avoid security and carefully placed to do the most damage to the government officials. It was timer-synched to a homemade bomb in the utility room, which immediately took out power and ruptured a gas line.

A few seconds later, an identical bomb placement exploded in the German Chancellery, not far away, with much the same effect.

By 4:01 PM CEST, the gas line in the Reichstag was leaking. Somewhere between 4:01 and 4:02, the gas in the Chancellery ignited and a larger explosion caused structural damage. By 4:02 a similar situation had occurred in the Reichstag.

Around 4:03 a cyber attack on the city infrastructure was detected, hindering attempts at emergency services coordination. This was later identified as the first in a series of distraction tactics by the parties responsible for the bombings; the others being a car bomb by the Brandenburg Gate outside the United States Embassy and a second car bomb in Potsdamer Platz, about a kilometer away from the first.

In other sections of Mitte, a series of arsons on immigrant establishments began. In Neukölln there was a set fire at a mosque and a few public assaults; but the action that garnered the most attention was against the _Germanen für Landesstolz_ Berlin office, which went up in a fire later determined, based on obtained eyewitness accounts, to likely be the work of a pipe bomb.

At some point near 4:10, the prevailing winds coupled with the strangely dry summer added enough encouragement to unnoticed debris from the Reichstag and Chancellery to catch the Platz der Republik on fire, which had spread within the next thirty minutes to eat up a good section of Tiergarten, and grown unmanageable.

By the half-hour, exact point undetermined, a deliberate fire was lit in Tempelhofer Park, further south. It went unnoticed in the surrounding chaos until the wind and the dryness had to create another fire on the caliber of Tiergarten.

Adding to the panic in the city center, on top of the fires and fear of terrorists, suicide actions by select members of some of the nationalist groups in the coalition that had formed to organize the bombings, the hints of which had been noticed and mentioned in passing by German news outlets when discussing the European Confederacy proposal, led to the death-by-shooting of a number of rescue workers, bystanders, several police officers, and eventually the terrorists themselves when their actions sparked the beginning of the riot that eventually enveloped the city.

* * *

_15 September 2048_  
 _Rotterdam, the Netherlands  
_ _4:17 PM CEST (10:17 EDT)_

Hanna Schumacher didn’t want to open the forums, but it was a tab she never closed and the post counter in the tab title had been ticking upward steadily-

_(3) (8) (13) (19) (26) (59)_

-since the start of the hour so she _had_ to-

_‘WHAT THE HELL WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE HELL’_

_‘HANNA. HANNA. OH MY GOD WE ARE. **SO. FUCKED.** ’_

_‘DID THEY **TELL YOU** THEY WERE GOING TO FUCKING DO THIS??!??!? THEY BETTER NOT HAVE’_

_‘Hey guys does anybody know if Anthemion went into work today or where they were supposed to be?’_

_‘@Elbast4Ge.stolz **YOU HAVE SO MUCH TO ANSWER FOR** ’_

_‘@Costus16 @Varicella @Nike9 Guys guys c’mon log on talk to us’_

_‘Can they get us for this should we turn in what we know I mean maybe if they do they won’t-’_

Hanna didn’t finish reading the latest post, mind swimming in anger-tinged terror because _it wasn’t **her** fault she’d been tricked it wasn’t **any** of theirs and they **couldn’t** go to anyone **no one would UNDERSTAND-**_

She sent out a message, properly coded to be the first thing to anyone saw when they opened onto the restricted forum.

_‘ **THIS ISN’T OUR FAULT. DON’T TALK TO ANYONE ABOUT ANY OF THIS.’**_

* * *

_15 September 2048_  
 _United Nations, New York City  
_ _10:27 AM EDT (4:27 PM CEST)_

Nia approached the United Nations warily, wondering if she was going to get tangled in security if Miervaldis wasn’t there waiting for her. Any front desk staff would probably not take kindly to her stopping by and announcing she had files that weren’t supposed to have left the building; and even if they believed her German passport with _‘Sonnehilde Lavinia Costa Beilschmidt’_ , she didn’t want to get into the complications of her family with strangers.

When she entered the building, trying to look nonchalant about it and _not_ like she had taken classified documents at least ten city blocks on a public bus in one of the busiest cities in the country, all without any security clearance whatsoever, she saw Miervaldis waiting just inside the security checkpoint.

Relieved, she took the portfolio out from under her arm, intending to just pass it through the checkpoint and leave; but Miervaldis grabbed her and pulled her through, showing his employee badge to the guards.

“Show them your ID,” he ordered.

“What?”

“There’s something seriously wrong with your father, I’m taking you up with me.”

* * *

 

 _15 September 2048_  
Berlin, Germany  
4:41 PM CEST (10:33 AM EDT)

Heinrich and Tobias and Armas had stayed together, but Armas’s sense of civic responsibility and Heinrich’s worry over the government that kept his father alive had had them headed towards the Reichstag and Chancellery, and they had been going straight through Tiergarten from the café to offer whatever help they could around the explosions they’d heard when they came up against a wall of fire and _ran._

“The Spree,” Heinrich told Tobias hoarsely after they’d been turned around in the smoke and ash. “If we get to it we can follow it out.”

They encountered the occasional group of people, taking the day in Tiergarten or simply passing through or trying to escape the riots of the city center and getting more panicked by the inferno, going all directions. Armas, trying to breathe through the smoke, stumbled into a stream Heinrich identified as the Tiergartenwasser and they walked along the far side of the bank from the city center, water on the right, until they crossed John-Foster-Dulles-Allee and found the Spree, dotted with other people who’d had the same idea.

A mid-sized white and blue boat, roaring down the river on the opposite side, headed away from the Reichstag, made a wide turn and rumbled back around towards them as they looked around, trying to decide what to do. As it got closer, Heinrich recognized it as a _Wasserschutzpolizei_ boat and tried to call out to the other people further down the river, but hacked instead. Tobias started to run towards them, but they’d heard the motor on the boat and had begun to come themselves.

“On, get on!” the police captain ordered as the boat slowed and began to idle, one of her eyes on the burning park. Everyone splashed through the water and officers pulled them up. It was cramped on the deck, police boats as whole not being made for large-scale rescue work, but they did manage to fit.

“Where are we going?” Heinrich asked the captain as the motor picked up and they shot away from shore. They were headed into the fire now, in preparation to make the turn and go back on the course the boat had been taking before.

“We can’t raise anyone to get orders,” she told him, and he felt the dread that had been sunk in his stomach ever since the first explosions start to seep into his bones. “Something’s knocked it out. So we’ve been ferrying people out to the Havel and down to Potsdam-”

“If you drop people in Alter Markt,” Heinrich told her, speaking slowly because of his raw throat from the smoke and the numb, quiet terror of staring down the river behind them at the city center in flames and the rumble of noise from the riots. “And spare someone to liaise with the Potsdam police to give people directions, I can open Preuβes Haus in Sansoucci, and anyone hurt can be sent to St. Josefs.”

The captain stared at him.

“You work for the Palaces and Gardens Foundation?”

“No. My uncle owns Preuβes Haus.”

* * *

_15 September 2048_  
 _United Nations, New York City  
_ _10:53 AM EDT (4:41 PM CEST)_

“He’s not breathing,” France said, a slid his hand from the wrist to the neck. “And no pulse. He’s-Prussia, he’s _cold._ ”

“Nations don’t _do_ that,” Hungary said. “We don’t _do_ that we don’t die like humans do, we never go cold-”

“Forouzandeh?” Austria asked entreatingly, resting a hand on his wife’s arm to quiet her. “Have you ever seen this?”

Iran shook her head.

“I have only heard of it from you,” she said, looking at Veneziano. “When you told me about Martigny; and the deaths there.”

“The demon’s gone,” Romano spat, edging further between his silent brother and the rest of the room. “It can’t be.”

“It’s not,” Prussia said from his position in the chair next to his brother’s bed, words tense and flat.

Iran raised one eyebrow.

“You have seen this before?”

“Plenty,” he replied, and the word was nothing but old, tired anger and bitterness. France raised an eyebrow in silent question at Austria, who just shrugged, looking perplexed. Hungary moved to put a comforting hand on Prussia’s back, but he struck her arm away.

“Gilbert, who-”

“Get out.”

“Gilbert-” Austria tried.

Prussia’s head snapped up from his brother’s face, face twisted into a snarl.

_“Get out.”_

Austria looked affronted.

“This-”

Hungary silenced him with a hand lightly over his mouth.

“It’s not worth it, Roderich,” she said quietly. “Let’s go find Switzerland, and you and he can talk about helping Germany.”

“I will go speak to Yao,” Iran said, mostly to herself. “If you should have need of me-”

She left the rest of the sentence hanging, and gestured for Romano to accompany her out.

“He’ll be with Spain,” he said under his breath. “C’mon, I’ll take you.”

France slipped out the door just in front of them, headed for places unknown, and Gilbert stared Feliciano down.

“Did you not hear what I _just fucking **said?**_ _Get out!_ ”

Feliciano tucked his arms tighter around himself.

“I-”

 _“GET OUT!”_ he roared, standing. The chair knocked back and _bang_ ed against the floor. Nia, kneeling by the bedside, flinched. “ _Nine months_ of silent treatment, of _letting_ him- _forcing_ him!- to hurt and tear himself apart and _now_ you want to come-”

Fury choked him for a moment.

“You are a _shit_ excuse for a spouse!” he hissed, getting into Feliciano’s personal space. “You run off to get yourself _killed_ with _no explanation,_ without even saying _goodbye;_ and then you _abandoned_ him when _you_ are his **_entire_** _fucking **life-**_ ”

“Gilbert,” Cristoforo said warningly from seat on the floor next to Nia.

Prussia ignored him.

“Is he-” Feliciano began timidly, eyes flicking to Ludwig. “Gilbert, when you saw this before, did they reco-”

“You _renounced him_ to _God,_ ” Gilbert spat. “When you married him you made a _sacred vow_ to **_love_** _and **honor** him_ ; for the **_rest_** _of your **life.**_ And _this_ is how you do it?”

He grabbed the front of Feliciano’s jacket-

_“ **THIS** IS HOW YOU DO IT?” _

_“Gilbert!”_ Cristoforo commanded, forcing himself between the pair. Prussia let go of Veneziano in disgust and Feliciano shrank back.

“As far as I’m concerned, _any fucking right_ you’ve _ever_ had to Ludwig, you’ve forfeited,” he snarled, Cristoforo holding him back. “I don’t owe you _explanations,_ I don’t owe you _assurances,_ I don’t even owe you _updates._ You forfeited it the _second_ you renounced your marriage- you _broke your **vows-**_ ”

Feliciano ran.

Cristoforo let go of him when the door slammed shut.

“That was of no help,” he murmured.

“Yeah, well, it was _justified,_ ” Gilbert snapped, and turned back to the bed, sitting down heavily.

Cristoforo righted the chair Prussia had knocked over earlier and took his own seat, folding his hands and leaning forward slightly.

“Gilbert,” he said. “Who else have you seen like this?”

Prussia’s mouth tightened, and he looked away, focusing on Germany’s face. He’d cleaned the blood away, but-

“I don’t have to tell _you,_ either,” he retorted.

“So _you’re_ keeping secrets now too, Uncle?” Nia asked resentfully. “Tell us, is he-”

“He’s already gone,” Prussia said shortly. “He was gone before he even hit the floor.”

* * *

_15 September 2048_  
 _Beth Israel Hospital, New York City  
_ _11:12 AM EDT (5:12 PM CEST)_

Rémy was seated in the waiting room, trying to distract himself with pointless Internet- or at least focus on wondering about what was taking Nia so long and not on worrying about Zell and the baby.

Using the classic method of _‘click the Random Article link on Wikipedia hyperlink from there’_ , he was reading about Fencibles United, a New Zealand football club, when his phone buzzed.

He didn’t bother opening the text app because the pop-up notification read:

_‘Reichstag+Chancellery bombed. Berlin on fire. Vati’s never-coming-back dead.’_

Fifteen seconds had him on _Der Spiegel_ ’s website, ten seconds more on DW’s, and then more, English and American and French, waiting and waiting and waiting for someone to post _something-_

The waiting room television was on the CNN news because apparently Americans thought that nonstop news coverage was the perfect solution to a high-stress environment, such as _every medical waiting room_ Rémy had ever been in in this country.

When the station picked it up Rémy only noticed because the only person watching it, an older man probably waiting for a grandchild to arrive, shushed the people around him loudly; and because he couldn’t hear the individual words from across the room but the drone but the commercial music ended suddenly and it shouldn’t have done that.

“We’re getting reports now from Berlin-” the reporter was saying, incredibly serious in a way he hadn’t been before the break.

“Turn it up,” Rémy begged the duty nurse behind the waiting room counter. “Please, please, my wife’s brother-”

The whole waiting room was staring at him but the duty nurse turned up the volume on the television.

“-last hour. The northernmost spread of the fire stretches from Berlin Technical University to the Brandenburg Gate, the inferno that was once Tiergarten endangering buildings and residences in Charlottenburg and the city center as well as the Technical University and the Berlin Zoo and Aquarium. We have been unable to contact any officials or emergency workers, but hopefully the fires stay confined to the south bank of the Spree. For those of you just joining us now, we go to Kevin Tribault, reporting live from Reinickendorf, Berlin on the bombings of the German Reichstag and Chancellery-”

If nothing else, it was an effective distraction.

* * *

_15 September 2048_  
 _Potsdam, Germany  
_ _5:36 PM CEST (11:36 AM EDT)_

The doors to Preuβes Haus were open and Heinrich had called into the GfL’s phone tree and the volunteers who lived in Potsdam and Brandenburg and Nauen and Beelitz and even Magdeburg had come with supplies and cars and someone had called down to Stuttgart and Stuttgart had sent out a larger call and there were supposed to be people coming from Hanover and Dresden and Leipzig and who _knew_ who they’d called-

But the _Wasserschutzpolizei_ were dropping people off in groups at Alter Markt and St. Josefs had an ambulance on site and waiting and the volunteers were taxiing people from the Havel to Sansoucci Park and Armas was cooking and Tobias was running around under Heinrich’s direction with Elke Bastian and a couple of helping refugees- and there was really no other word he could think of and Heinrich _hated_ that-

He went to his uncle’s bedroom and called his father’s phone.

It rang until it went to voicemail, and Heinrich listened to it the whole way through, waiting and wondering and _what if there’s no one to pick up-_

He started to leave a message and then the phone picked up.

_“Vati-”_

“It’s Gilbert, Heinz, your father-”

“Is he okay?”

A heavy silence, and then:

“He’s gone.”

The world stopped, and Heinrich told himself he wasn’t going to cry on the phone with his uncle.

“I-I’m fine, the _Wasserschutzpolizei_ picked us up out of Tiergarten, we’re fine, I- they were taking people to Potsdam so I told them to drop us in Alter Markt and anybody they picked up afterwards, I told them I’d open up your house for people since St. Josefs was right there I’m sorry if you- tell Finland and Sweden Armas is okay, he was having lunch with me and Tobias he’s here with us now do you- it’s- here-”

If he kept talking, if only he kept talking he wouldn’t have to-

“ _Germanen für Landesstolz_ has someone on the other side of the Spree reporting in and a couple people with the police and the ones who work at the hospitals and the fire’s in Charlottenburg now, Schloss Bellevue went up and I don’t think anybody knows where the President is and with the rest of the government dead- Tiergarten’s completely on fire, Tempelhofer too, they’re trying to evacuate Kreuzberg and Neukölln and Schöneberg but communications are down and there were little bombings other places and people are panicking and the police and firefighters’ communication lines are down and ambulances can’t get through and I think I might be in on the only functioning communications network right now, since GfL has gotten everywhere I think and I know the first _Wasserschutzpolizei_ boat that picked us up keeps grabbing more of them in on the drop point-”

“Heinrich- _stop._ ”

And he did, he stuttered to a stop in the middle of his continued babbling about the situation in Berlin and and-

“He’s dea-” he asked, voice breaking on the last word. “He’s dead?”

“Yeah.”

“I-”

“Heinrich, where-”

Armas opened the door and stopped cold at the sight of him. Elke pressed closer into the doorway, hoping to get past and offer help or comfort or _something-_

“ _Babbo,_ how’s-” he squeezed his eyes shut, feeling hot tears leak through.

“I didn’t tell him.”

Heinrich pulled the phone from his ear like it burned and hung up, letting it drop to the floor.

“Heinrich?” Armas asked softly.

Heinrich realized he’d started shaking, when-

“It’s- _Vati, Vati_ ’s _**dead;**_ he’s _really-_ he’s really-”

He couldn’t, this was- He _couldn’t-_

_“Germany’s **dead.** ”_

And that was too much- he’d lost his _father_ and his _home;_ all at once-

He stuffed his fist in his mouth and screamed.

* * *

_15 September 2048_  
 _United Nations, New York City  
_ _11:53 PM EDT (11:53 AM CEST [16 September])_

The only time Prussia had left the room since he’d kicked everyone else out was to track down Berwald and Timo and tell them that Heinrich had told him that Armas was safe in the Potsdam house with him. They had naturally asked after Ludwig, and Prussia had given them the long, closed look all Nations knew- it was the look of someone in too much pain to devote any energy to processing it, a self-preservation mechanism to keep from overloading.

 _“He’s dead,”_ was the answer.

The first person Sweden told was Denmark. The first person Finland told was Russia. Denmark told Norway and Greece, and Norway told Iceland, and Iceland told Belgium and the Netherlands. Russia told Japan and France and France told England and America and Canada and Spain.

Greece, Belgium, the Netherlands, and Spain all converged on Romano simultaneously, completely on accident, to tell him.

Romano got to his brother, fully prepared to find an emotional wreck, just in time to walk in on Japan, bewildered by his friend’s reception of his expressed consolations over the loss of his husband.

“What- I- no, no, Kiku, Ludwig’s not- Gilbert would have _told_ me-”

Lovino got to tell him that, no, Gilbert _hadn’t._

And Gilbert had kicked him out of German embassy’s suite but he _had_ to, he _had_ to go back and _see-_

When he pushed the door open Gilbert didn’t move. Nia was nowhere to be- no, the door to the adjoining bedroom was open, she was sleeping in Prussia’s bed.

And Prussia was asleep in his chair, so in _Germany’s_ bed-

Oh thank _God- thank you, thank you-_

Ludwig, still lying still but _he was still there_ and when Feliciano got to his side there was no heartbeat and no breath and he was _cold_ and that was _wrong_ but if he was dead there’d be no body so maybe things were really _really_ wrong but it was nothing that couldn’t be fixed-

“Feliciano,” a voice said quietly, and he startled, bracing for the continued onslaught from Prussia, but Cristoforo stirred in the shadows and came over.

“They told me he was dead,” Feliciano whispered. “They said Gilbert told them but he’s _not,_ he’s still-”

Cristoforo pried his hands away, gently.

“Cristo-”

The Vatican started to lead him out of the room.

“Cris-”

“Feliciano.”

 _“Cristino,”_ Feliciano said, strained. “What-”

Cristoforo took a deep breath.

“Your eyes lie to you, Feliciano. Ludwig- he’s dead.”

“No,” Feliciano said, shaking his head. “No. No. He’s a _Nation_ he’s _Germany-_ ”

“He’s dead,” Cristoforo repeated.

_“No.”_

“Feliciano, your husband is _dead._ ”

" _No!_ He’s _still there_ I **_just saw him-_** ”

“A person is _not_ their body, Feliciano; a person is their _soul_ and Ludwig’s-”

He stopped.

“What?” Feliciano asked fearfully. “What? _Ludwig’s soul is **what?**_ ”

“That’s- that’s for Prussia to tell.”

“What- _Cristoforo **please-**_ No. No where are you going _no **don’t close the door Cristino!**_

**_CRISTOFORO!_ **

**_CHRISTOPHORUS- VATICANUS! MI NARRE! VATICANE MI NARRE MI NARRE-_ **

Cristoforo **_please-_**

Open-

Open the door. Tell me. Please. Tell me what happened to Ludwig he’s my _husband_ -

 _I love him **please-!**_ ”

* * *

_16 September 2048_  
 _Beth Israel Hospital, New York City  
_ _7:03 AM EDT (1:03 PM CEST)_

Waking up was nice, Zell thought, but she could do without everything being sore.

The sun was somewhat up, light slanting in the window, and Rémy was asleep on the chair next to her bed, head thrown back at an angle she knew would make him wake up in pain- but he looked utterly exhausted and emotionally rung out, even in sleep.

Nothing had gone wrong- she knew that much. There was a note on her bedside table that said that, once she woke up, she could use the call button to get a nurse and see her baby.

She’d let Rémy sleep some more first, and get a concrete time on when to wake him up.

Zell reached for the bag with her phone in it.

 

 _7:06  Hi Vati I’m awake. I had my baby!!!  
_ _7:08 How did your meeting go did Nia get the papers there in time?_ _7:09 Do you know when you’re coming?_  
7:12 I think it would be nice if we were all here the first time I saw my baby  
7:17 Is Babbo coming with you or is he coming separately?  
7:18 I know you were going to try to talk to him  
7:27 Vati, are even you awake?  
7:32 Vati you’re going to be running late  
7:33 Vati  
7:35 Vati  
7:39 VATI WAKE UP  
7:48 Vati?  
7:52 Why do I have a text from Heinrich saying he got out of Berlin okay and he’s safe and he’s at the house in Potsdam  
7:52 Vati what happened  
7:53 Please  
7:53 Answry ojkod  
7:54 Answer your phone  
7:55 VATI ANSWER YOUR PHONE  
7:56 Vati please are you alright?  
7:56 Vati  
8:03 Oh god vati the morning news im calling uncle gil

 

* * *

Prussia was sitting next to his brother’s corpse and trying to come up with something, _anything_ more that he could give because his land and his people (twice now) and his kings and all the greatest love and care he ever had to make Ludwig Germany and keep him that way and still; _still,_ he was here, next to his brother’s corpse, again.

But he knew there was nothing he could do, nor anyone else, and the irrational, fleeting, fantastical wisps of hope that kept happening for no good reason-

_Maybe I’m wrong **this** time maybe he’ll get up maybe he’ll beat it_

-tasted like sand in his mouth, gritty and dry and salty.

“How long?” Cristoforo asked.

“I don’t know.”

The bedroom he’d used was the one with the windows- Ludwig had disliked the New York lights, they’d kept him up at night and reminded him he wasn’t at home. He’d said that all that florescence gave him a headache, and so Gilbert had taken the room with the windows.

So it was dark, because what good was light in a room for the dead?

“Feliciano has been sitting outside in the hallway all night.”

“I know.”

He couldn’t do this again. He _couldn’t_. Ludwig had been around the longest, been the only one to grow up, and he’d given him _everything-_

“You’ve told me, but you’re going to have to tell the others. Before it happens. You can’t-”

“I know.”

* * *

It took no longer than the evening of September 16th for the country still called Germany to learn of its Nation’s death.

Elke Bastian had it first hand from Heinrich, and passed the news around to the other members of _Germanen für Landesstolz,_ going so far as to call up the Vienna and Stuttgart offices and have the people in charge there put her on speakerphone so she could personally tell everyone how this was a tragedy, and a travesty; but also a time of dire need and exactly the sort of situation in which the German peoples needed solidarity the most.

The GfL members spread it around to the Berlin refugees and the volunteers already in the area or headed there, coordinated through their volunteer effort. The news spread fast, as the sheer volume of people the GfL had contact with through the Berlin relief program was staggering- in the decades to come, it would be remembered as one of the most moving examples of grassroots organization and humanitarianism in living memory.

By the time the German ambassador to the UN issued the official statement of death, most of the German citizenry had already heard.

The general consensus then became twofold-

_Our government is dead. Who do we turn to?_

That, at least, was obvious. _Germanen für Landesstolz_ was already there, already had some reputation and popularity and that was just booming-

_Our Nation is dead. We can’t have a country without a Nation, we are a people without a state, a people without an identity- **who are we now?**_

If Germany-the-Nation was dead, then the citizens of what was still called Germany, but really couldn’t be for much longer, couldn’t be Germans. That much was obvious, the Germans and the Austrians and the Swiss and really, the rest of the world, agreed- because where would humanity be, if they started making illegitimate governments? A government was nothing without a state and state was nothing but a construct, a lifeless abstract, worth less than nothing, without a Nation to _prove_ they really existed.

Nowhere good, they could all agree.

But the people were _German-_

But there was no _Germany-_

But-

But ‘German’ had a new meaning now, didn’t it- and _Germanen für Landesstolz_ knew it, they’d been saying it for months-

Really, maybe this was destiny.

Maybe it _was_ time to make something new and different and better- time to let go of the past and try again.

And by the time they’d figured it out, well-

 _Surely_ they’d have a Nation by then.

* * *

Zell managed a smile for the nurse who brought her baby in, who gave a much more genuine smile back and congratulated her and Rémy on their new son.

“Is this your first?” she asked.

“Yes,” Rémy answered for the both of them, and the nurse beamed.

She left the birth certificate paperwork on the bedside table for them to fill in the name.

Zell stared down at her son and lightly touched his sparse blonde hair, and started to cry.

Rémy held her tighter and she curled up around their baby.

“Rémy, Rémy, what are we going to _do?_ Where- where is he going to grow _up_ I’m on maternity leave now I was going to take him _home_ but-”

“The apartment in Yorkville-”

“Isn’t _Berlin._ It isn’t- it’s not _Germany._ ”

“We’ll get a place somewhere else,” Rémy promised. “We can’t do Berlin now but I’ll take time off, we’ll go to Germany, pick some cities, find a place-”

“It’s _not_ Germany,” Zell told him, tired and heartbroken. “ _Vati_ ’s dead; it’s not- it’s not anything. It’s just _land._ We’re _stateless_ , Rémy!”

“It’ll get fixed. It will. We’ll wait until the hospital lets you and the baby go, and then we’ll take the first plane to Europe. It doesn’t have to be Germany, even, Zell- just… wherever. You have a dual citizenship, we could go to Italy-”

She shook her head.

“No. No, I want-”

She stopped.

“I can’t have it. I can’t have _Vati_ and Germany’s _wrong_ without him and so is Italy and- and-”

He kissed her.

“We’ll figure something out,” he promised.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Rémy reached over to touch his son.

“We have paperwork to do, Zell.”

Zell handed the baby to him. He didn’t wake up, but settled heavily into his father’s arms. She took the paperwork off the bedside table and held in both hands, just looking, in silence.

After a few minutes, she took a pen out of the bag Rémy had brought to the hospital and carefully wrote _‘Louis Beilschmidt’_ in proper place.

“After _Vati_ ,” she told her husband, and buzzed for the nurse to come back and file the forms.

* * *

Irene… couldn’t remember how they’d gotten here.

 _‘Here’_ was at the base of a mountain, an enormous tree growing in the join between the hill soil and the mountain rock, a natural well jutting up from the stone, the sound of rushing water far, far below. The wind was blowing here, and the land seemed… desolate, though far below, off in the distance, she could just barely see farmland, and a windmill-

The horses were gone, and the Prince of the Tylwyth Teg was gone; but Eglantine was holding her hand and looking around in wonder, and Arthur-

Her _birth father._

Was talking to a person a touch shorter than him, armored, and…

And…

They were going to have to have a _talk_ about all this.

“Mum, Mum!” Eglantine said excitedly, bouncing in place. “There’s _dwarves!_ ”

“What?” Irene murmured. How could she not remember- did she fall asleep? Did they carry her up here? She didn’t like not knowing.

 _“There!”_ Eglantine insisted, pointing at the man England was talking to. “ _He’s_ a dwarf Grandfather called him Alberich he’s their _King!_ ”

Oh joy. _More_ magical royalty.

There was fruit, in the tree- apples. They were a deep yellow with just a hint of orange, and suddenly Irene remembered she hadn’t eaten anything since- whenever it was. However long it had been. Since before they left.

She reached up to pull a branch down for a closer look, but suddenly _her birth father_ was there, tugging her arm down.

“Not for you,” he said. “They’re Golden Apples, Irene- not unless you want an unnatural life.”

“Why can’t I remember?” she demanded.

“We came through the mountains,” England said, making a wide, sweeping gesture at the range above them. “Through the caves. Sometimes- that happens.”

“I-”

She shook her head, trying to clear it, or maybe dislodge some bit of memory.

“It’s okay, Mum,” Eglantine confided to her, in a stage whisper. “ _I_ remember.”

“We need to talk.”

And England looked _scared_ , but he said:

“I know. I’ve asked for passage home through the World Gate, and King Alberich kindly informed me that since the Wild Hunt is currently… suspended until further notice, there’s no one who has the authority to stop us here.”

Eglantine took his hand when he offered it, and the three of them walked together through the World Gate, between the tree and well, and emerged back in England’s kitchen.

* * *

Hanna Schumacher looked down at the two pictures in her hands.

One, in the left, taken through a window- a woman at her kitchen table in Chieti, Italy; hair behind her ears, eyes on her computer.

The other, in the right, from above- the woman dead and bloody on the street in Pescara, a bullet to the head.

She’d have to hide them somewhere, after she cancelled CyberiteAgape’s account and came up with a good excuse for the rest of the forum why one of their most active members wasn’t around any longer.

Maybe she wouldn’t have too. Maybe she could just cancel it and act as confused as the rest of them. After all, people dropped out of the Internet sometimes. Not _often_ , but _sometimes-_

Wait. Maybe-

Maybe she could imply that she thought CyberiteAgape had been picked up by the authorities. Maybe, then, when nothing broke and Cyberite never returned-

Maybe then they’d all keep their mouths shut.

She didn’t want to have to pay that much to take care of a problem ever again, even if it was for protecting the truth.

After all, who was to say that some Nation somewhere had started nosing around and found Cyberite- Cyberite was Italian, Chieti you could maybe make a case for being in south Italy, if you were willing to stretch things a little-

And the Italy that lived in the south, in Naples- well, _he’d_ been killing people left and right lately, hadn’t he? _Mafiosi_ , yes, but still people. Still humans.

Humans who got too close.

Yes, that would work.

* * *

In the two weeks that passed between the 15th of September and the 29th, Prussia kept himself locked in the German embassy’s suite in the UN. Cristoforo came and went to bring food and water, and discreetly left the door to the sitting room from the hall open. Feliciano started living out of the sitting room, waiting for answers.

When stopped on his way to the kitchens and asked by Israel what Prussia was doing shutting himself up in a room with his brother’s corpse, the Vatican said simply:

_“Waiting.”_

Everyone wondered what for.

* * *

For those two weeks, nearly everyone else was sent home; but Europe kept swinging by in the mornings, staggered by their time zones, bringing office work with them. Switzerland and Austria dropped in when they could. Hungary was there every day, and Spain and Ukraine and Latvia and the Nordics. Romano was officially no longer on speaking terms with the Italian Prime Minister _or_ the Italian President; but neither of them had ordered Feliciano home and neither of them were making him do his work in his office.

America, who came and went on an hourly basis with Canada, offered him the use of his New York condo so he’d only have to take half an hour to go to Rome, drop off finished work and get the new, and come back two or three times a day during meal breaks; instead of overnighting and maybe missing on being there for something important.

Romano accepted, and managed to keep his bosses from finding out, so it worked.

Austria, first thing in the morning on September 16th, offered the German diplomatic corps- first in the UN, then across the world- refuge with his own. On the orders of the harried UN ambassador, they accepted. Since there was no one else with any rank still alive that they could get in contact with, Roderich formally presented his country’s pledge of assistance to the German UN ambassador. His secretary, similarly without any central power to go to, sought out the next best thing.

Fadri Ruegg, deputized by Elke Bastian to oversee volunteer recruitment in Austria and Switzerland, decamped to the _Germanen für Landesstolz_ Vienna office and started working with the Austrian Federal Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

In Germany, work began.

Heinrich, who Armas and Elke thought was worryingly _intense_ about helping, opened Brandenburges Haus on the Charlottenburg Palace grounds, right on the edge of the destruction, as headquarters for the relief effort. Elke set up a secondary headquarters for the GfL at the Berlin regional court just across the Spree.

Armas set up shop here, and found himself serving as the main information outlet to the press. For two days, he spent nearly every waking moment answering questions about the disaster, which mostly amounted to an endless round of _‘We don’t know’_ s.

* * *

In the early evening of September 17th, two trucks entered the city limits of Berlin from the south, stuffed to the brim with medical and hygiene supplies. They pulled up to the unloading area set up on the Charlottenburg Palace grounds, then drove over Schloβbrücke to Tegeler Weg and the courthouse.

Armas was holding his eternal press conference out front, Elke sitting on the steps behind him with Heinrich, who she’d forced to take a break, still trying to convince him to get a ride out of the city to Hanover or Hamburg, or Szczecin or Pozam in Poland, to a working airport and taking a flight to New York City to be with his family, when the trucks pulled a stop further down the street, at the far end of the press crowd.

There were a few curious looks when the man got out of the first truck, but everyone was fully prepared to ignore him, dressed as he was for relief efforts; except Armas made a sharp slashing motion at them all to shut up and-

 _“Sebastian!”_ Heinrich yelled, and pushed his way down the steps and through the reporters. “ _Liesl!_ You- _SOPHIE!_ ”

The shorter woman, the blonde one, caught him in a hug. Someone, liking the contrast of the largely-built man and the small woman supporting him, took a picture. A couple other people decided they weren’t going to be upstaged and followed suit.

“We’re supposed to see whoever’s in charge,” Sebastian told Heinrich quietly; but microphones picked it up anyway.

“That’s- that’s probably Elke,” he said, and this time the reporters parted to let them through. A couple of them caught Armas looking _incredibly_ relieved as he started to step back. More pictures were taken when Sebastian caught Armas upper arm and gave it a squeeze, leaning in to tell him softly that he’d been doing a good job. No one in the crowd could hear that, and speculation would run rampant on it for a time.

Elke was standing now, and oh, the way the other group stopped in front of her looked kind of like a stand-off, didn’t it? A changing of the guard, perhaps? Look at the way they’re oriented around each other! It’s dramatic, whatever’s going to happen. Prime time for more pictures.

“Friends of yours, Heinrich?” Elke asked.

“Elke,” Heinrich said, leading Sebastian forward. “This is Sebastian Zwingli, the Swiss Confederation.”

There were only one or two stations with actual television cameras, far in the back, and _oh,_ what a missed opportunity for the rest of them-

“Liesl Hohenheim Zwingli, the Principality of Liechtenstein-”

The short woman- wait, the man they’d been ignoring, up on the steps, he was _important_. Who _was_ he? He knew these people- Heinrich, Elke Bastian had said Heinrich, Heinrich _who?_

Wai- What? An _opera singer_?

Yes, he’s Heinrich Beilschmidt, I saw him in _Tristan und Isolde_ when it was in Stuttgart. They were supposed to have the last performance for the season last night.

“And-”

Heinrich took a deep breath in preparation.

“-Sophie Sieghild Friederike Käthe Prinzessen von Preußen und von Habsburg-Hohenzollern, the Federal Minister of the Interior.”

“My husband and I were in Vaduz-” she began by way of explanation, extending her hand.

“Oh _thank God,_ ” Elke interrupted with feeling, taking it. “We found someone with an actual _office._ ”

Later, the picture the New York Times took of the moment- Elke Bastian, Chairperson of _Germanen für Landesstolz_ , and Sophie Prinzessen von Preuβen, German Federal Minister of the Interior, shaking hands on the steps of the Berlin regional court, Switzerland and Liechtenstein looking on from behind, and, off to the side, Germany’s son- would be written into history as the beginning of a new era.

* * *

 

The light hurt.

His eyes were barely open and it was _too much_ already.

There was movement in the room, he could hear it. One was close, a creak-

 _Weight shifted on chair,_ his mind supplied.

-the other was further away, feet on the floor. _That_ came with a sharp spike of emotion, _reliefconfusionfearsuspicion_ ; and the source registered to him as

 **IMPORTANT** above and beyond everything else he could feel; and that was so far away, why were his people-

Why wasn’t he with them?

The light didn’t hurt as badly when he tried opening his eyes again, and actually there wasn’t that much of it in this room.

That was a little odd.

He turned towards the noises from before.

Across the room there was a man in a Catholic priest’s cassock and with a bishop’s shoulder cape, white sash and piping- why? The colors were all wrong.

The confusing bishop was holding one of his own people back and no, that was wrong too, they were _his_ -

“ _Vati_?” the woman asked, and the emotion now was _hopejoywariness_.

He mouthed it silently to himself, confused; and the _hopejoy_ went away and now it was _confusionwariness_ with a tint of _trepidation_ she didn’t want to acknowledge.

 _‘Vati’_ \- no, why would anyone call him that?

Some sort of memory- could he call it memory? It was more like knowledge, perhaps, he could feel it well up from his people, supplied him with

“ _Vaterland_? _”_

That wasn’t-

“ _Nein, mir nicht_.”

_‘Fatherland? No, not me.’_

_Confusionwariness_ was _understandingnonoyouDON’TyouDON’T **PAIN**_ and no, she was hurting, that was unacceptable above and beyond anyone else hurting _why **was** that_

_“Es-”_

Who _was_ she?

 _Sonnehilde Lavinia Costa Beilschmidt_ , something told him, and there was a warmth there, a need to _protect_ , why was he so sorry she was hurting?

What was **_wrong_ ** with him?

“ _Es tut mir Leid_ , Sonnehilde.”

 _‘I’m sorry, Sonnehilde’-_ and somehow _that_ was also the wrong thing to say, now it was just **_PAINPAINPAIN screaming_** at him clogging his head and why did he feel like he had to fix this was it because she was so close and everyone else was so far did distance have anything to do with how intensely he could feel his people what-

“Hey.”

There was the chair he’d heard, right next to him, to the bed. He could focus on that; that was _so_ much better than Sonnehilde Beilschmidt.

He was a _strange_ one, this man in the chair- but there was the instant recognition, the same feeling of familiarity greater than it should have been _he didn’t know who this man was_ -

“What’s your name?” he demanded.

He- what-

 _Did_ he know his name?

There was a moment of panic, he _had_ to know his _name_ \- and then it came to him.

“ _Vereinigtenrepublik Germanenlanden_ ,” he told the man, relieved that he could come up with an answer to _this_ question, at least.

“And where are your borders?”

Oh, that was _much_ easier-

“Flensburg to Chiaso,” he replied immediately. “Geneva to Kittsee.”

“Prussia,” said the man, and it took a moment for Vereinigtenrepublik Germanenlanden to realize that he’d given his own name. “Gilbert Beilschmidt.”

Vereinigthenrepublik Germanenlanden looked between Prussia- Gilbert? Why did he have two names?- and Sonnehilde.

“Pay attention!” Prussia ordered, and his head snapped back to focus on the other man. “You’ve got your first name. Your second one- that’s Dietrich Ehren.”

Dietrich Ehren.

That was a lot faster to say, at least, even if he wasn’t sure _why_ he needed two just yet.

“Dietrich Ehren,” he repeated dutifully.

And suddenly Sonnehilde crystalized into _ragebitternessloathing_ and Dietrich’s attention was immediately on her and he wanted to shrink back away and there were tears forming she was-

She was _his_ and she _hated_ him **_why-_**

Sonnehilde struggled out of the confusing bishop’s grip and ran for the door, slamming it open and there were people past there, were they important, _God_ he couldn’t handle this right now-

Prussia got up and followed her out, and he was alone with the bishop.

“Why-” Dietrich tried. “Why does she hate me?”

The Vatican sighed, and took Prussia’s chair.

“Because you are not Germany.”

* * *

Nia burst out of the bedroom and the Nations there jumped at the sound of the door slamming into the wall and her heaving wheezes as she tried to contain everything that had just happened- the world was _wrong_ now, she still had the sense she’d always thought of as ‘ _Germany’_ ; the quiet, comfortable knowledge that there was someone there, that she had someone who cared about and loved her and wouldn’t ever leave and she’d never thought she’d _not_ have it, not once since the day it had switched on when the Nations became human again- and if she’d ever lost it, it would only have been _right_ because it would have meant her father was gone but now-

He _was_ gone, but the feeling was still there and there was a _stranger_ on the other end of it and it was _wrong wrong **wrong**_ she wanted to peel herself out of her skin and turn her ribs inside out and scrub away everything that connected her to that _pretender_ in the next room who looked at her and called her ‘Sonnehilde’ with her father’s face and her father’s voice and a vague, puzzled sort of sympathy and she braced herself on the back of the sitting room couch, trying not to throw up.

She heard the door close again and it was Prussia, and he-

**_That LIAR._ **

_“You said he was dead!”_ she screamed; because anger was better than the sick, sick feeling everywhere in her-

“He _is!_ ” Prussia shot back, and she just… couldn’t, any longer.

She punched him straight in the face, and because he wasn’t expecting it, it connected. Prussia yelled in surprise and pain and lashed out on reflex, but Spain had already grabbed Nia from behind, trapping her arms, and pulled her out of the way.

_“If he was **dead** that wouldn’t have-”_

There was a _THUMP_ from the bedroom and, through the open door, you could just see the sheets where they’d fallen off the bed, and the rising back of the man getting off the floor, shakily.

A sharp inhale, from Veneziano, and he was dashing towards the room.

_“Lud-”_

Prussia grabbed him as he went passed, throwing his weight in the opposite direction to force him to a stop as Cristoforo hurriedly shut the door and stood directly in front of it, blocking anyone else from trying to get through.

 _“Don’t you **dare,** ” _he snarled at Feliciano. “Don’t you even _think_ about it-”

Feliciano looked up at him, sorrow weighing on his face.

“Please,” he begged.

And Prussia was about to snap, but-

“Gilbert,” Cristoforo said; and this time, it stopped him. “You have to.”

“You _knew_ that was going to happen,” Nia spat him, still trapped in Spain’s arms. “You didn’t _tell us_ and you _knew_ that he-”

 _“Fine,”_ he told the room, shoving Veneziano away. “You know what, what the hell- let me tell you a story.”

* * *

It seemed like the same time of evening they’d left, at least- when Irene looked at one of England’s clocks on the way to put Eglantine to bed in the guest room, it was only a few hours later in the night.

When she got back to the kitchen, England was riffling through a stack of newspapers. His dining room table was covered with them; eleven, each about a foot high.

England looked up briefly when she walked in.

“One for each month we were gone,” he said.

“We were gone almost a _year?_ ” Irene exclaimed, aghast. “But- two days, _maybe-_ ”

“That place and here,” England said. “Don’t match up; and even the rate of difference changes depending on where you are. It used to be more stable, but-”

He pulled one newspaper out of the pile and stared at it.

“I wonder how long the Wild Hunt’s been gone,” he said quietly, mostly to himself, and handed the newspaper to Irene.

 _'Germany Falls’_ it declared. _‘Nation Dead and Capital Destroyed in Terrorist Attack’_

The date on the paper told her they’d missed it by about half a month and if _that_ much had changed then what _else_ had they missed?

It occurred to Irene that maybe England- maybe her birth father- was expecting something from her.

“Did you know Germany well?”

England actually looked surprised that she’d thought to ask, so apparently he hadn’t been expecting anything.

“Better than some,” he replied. “But he didn’t talk to people who weren’t his family much outside of business. He never quite got the hang of easy social interactions.”

“Did he have any children?” Irene asked, because otherwise they’d probably never get to the point.

England didn’t seem like he wanted to go here, but he answered anyway.

“Three. Two daughters and a son. Ah-”

He went back to the newspaper stack and came up with a new one, the headline again about Germany- _‘Sole Surviving German Official Discovered’_ \- and pointed to a man off to the side in the main photograph.

“-that’s the son. Heinrich.”

Irene nodded, and then asked: “So, do _I_ have siblings?”

“No,” England said quickly.

“So there was no one else?” Irene pressed. “After- Naomi?”

“I wasn’t expecting Naomi,” he admitted quietly. “I thought, when it happened, that I’d pass the rest of my days away writing. But-”

He gestured vaguely. Irene couldn’t tell what he was trying to indicate.

“-and then she got pregnant. We were going to get married after you were born, it was going to be a quiet civil ceremony, up before the clerk and then done; but then the car crashed.”

“And you didn’t keep me.”

“I would have made a terrible father.”

“You never even tried,” Irene said.

“I’ve had children to raise before,” England told her. “America. Canada. Australia.”

Irene folded her arms across her chest.

“And I’m betting the reason you thought you did badly was because politics mucked it up?”

“I tried to stay away and I still hurt you,” England said, avoiding the question. “The magical protections that got Reynard Fox interested in you- those were mine. I knew I couldn’t _stay_ and have you be well so I thought, maybe I couldn’t use magic at the time but I could do it the human way, I could ask for some favors to be repaid and have you protected-”

“If you’d stayed you wouldn’t have had to do that.”

“-I meddle in people’s lives; Joseph was an intern in one of the offices near me and I made sure he heard the café you were working at was a good one and made sure you noticed each other-”

“Did you magic us to make us fall in love?”

“No!”

“Well,” Irene said. “Then that just proves you know your boundaries.”

England stared at her.

“You’re not leaving, are you?”

“No,” his daughter told him. “Someone has to teach Lana, and I can’t. I don’t have even a little of whatever magic she does- and our trip taught me that even if I _did_ , I wouldn’t have the knowledge to.”

England sighed.

“I- yes, I can do that. We’ll sort something out in the morning. I have another guest room, if you’d like-”

“I’m staying with Lana.”

England nodded in understanding, and went to do something in the kitchen.

It smelled of faintly of alcohol when Irene came back, with one last question before bed.

“When you told the Queen that she was Joseph’s daughter- it’s true?”

“If you mean biologically?” he asked. “I don’t know. In all honesty- the fact that she has more magic than you, likely not. But in the only way that matters- what _she_ thinks- yes, Joseph is her father.”

Irene let that knowledge settle. She’d worry more about it- or not- tomorrow.

“Ezra Walker is my father,” she told England.

“I know,” he replied heavily.

“But you could be too,” Irene said, and left for the guest bedroom.

* * *

“Way back in 1648,” Prussia began. “ _He-_ ”

He pointed at Austria, who looked affronted.

“-made a decision that, at the time, just proved how much of a self-centered _bastard_ he was; but, in the long run, brought us all here.”

“I-” Austria began.

 _“In 1648,”_ Prussia continued, glaring at him. “ _You_ gave Brandenburg the Holy Roman Empire.”

Austria blanched.

“What?” Hungary asked. “Roderich, you told me Gilbert _stole-_ ”

“He _did!_ ” Austria snapped. “He-”

“You gave Brandenburg the Holy Roman Empire because _you_ had just become a big player in the German states; and _you_ didn’t want to deal with a kid who could barely remember a thing hour to hour!”

 _“What,”_ said France.

“So you shipped him off to Brandenburg, the _backwater_ of the entire Empire, to get rid of him!”

Prussia started pacing, back and forth, in front of the door to the bedroom.

“The Thirty Year’s War left him _shattered_ and you couldn’t be _bothered_ to try and help him! You just wanted to _hide_ him; hide that the Empire was weak and needed constant care and was falling apart at the seams. So you had him carted off to Brandenburg, and dumped him on Luitgard, and _forgot_ about him.”

“I never _forgot,_ ” Austria said stiffly, after a few moments of silence.

Prussia scowled at him.

“So I’m married to Luitgard, yeah? Brandenburg-Prussia. She’s sitting on the Habsburg’s dirty little secret and she won’t tell anyone, she just spends her days taking care of the kid and lets me handle the government stuff. It works pretty well; and you go throwing your weight around Europe without a second thought to the three of us. _Brandenburg_ is the one who took care of him. _Brandenburg_ is the one that thought of him as family.”

Austria crossed his arms and refused to meet anyone’s eyes.

“Me?” Prussia said. “Me- I couldn’t stand to be around the kid. He freaked me out. He was a _Nation; we_ were _Nations._ We were supposed to be strong, and always recover, but him? He was _broken;_ but he wasn’t dead. He was a _ghost_ , one with a breath and a heartbeat, but there was nothing _alive_ about him. He was-”

Gilbert stopped walking a moment, and swallowed.

“He was _empty._ The other states had all the land, the power, the people. He didn’t have _anything-_ just his name.”

He was silent moment; then said, expression twisting:

“He wasn’t much of a proper Nation at all, really.”

Prussia started pacing again.

“Then Friedrich III makes himself King in Prussia, and Luitgard’s _dead_ , and I’m stuck with the Empire. Suddenly-”

Austria stiffened when Prussia looked at him.

“-you _cared._ You cared because you finally had someone with enough power to challenge you in the Empire, and I had the Empire- I had _leverage._ So the 1700s is nothing but one big grudge match, a- a custody battle, if you will.”

Austria tried to speak again.

“ _Brandenburg_ was the only one tasked with his-”

Prussia whirled on him.

 _“If you’d **cared** about his well-being, you wouldn’t have sent him with the army!”_ he roared. _“If you’d **cared,** he wouldn’t have **been at Austerlitz!** ”_

A beat of silence, and then-

“I-” Feliciano said quietly. “I only knew Heinri- Holy Rome. I only knew him _after_ you took him from Prussia, Austria.”

 _“Roderich,”_ Erzsébet said, horrified.

 _“Heinrich,”_ Gilbert said- surprised, like he’d just realized something. Dread curled in his gut. “Veneziano, you- Lutz and you, you both gave one name for Zell and Nia, but he let you give both for-”

“Holy Rome, he,” Feliciano said, stumbling over his words. “He was the first person I ever loved, like that. He- he said _he loved me too_ , did he even _remem_ \- was it-”

 _“Shit,”_ Prussia swore. “I didn’t- _shit._ ”

They stared at each other for a few long, long minutes.

“Gilbert-” Feliciano said, trying not to sound fearful. “Why are you-”

“Francis,” Gilbert said.

“Austerlitz?” France asked quietly. “I killed the Holy Roman Empire.”

Slowly, Prussia shook his head.

“No. No, you- all of you. You have it wrong. _Heinrich,_ he- yeah, okay, he was the Holy Roman Empire, but-”

“Stop _babbling_ ,” Hungary pressed.

“You _know_ what the Holy Roman Empire was, yeah? _‘Neither Holy, nor Roman, nor an Empire’_. It was an idea- an _ideal_. It was German unity. And you didn’t kill that, Francis.”

A heavy pause; and-

“Nobody ever has.”

“…No,” Feliciano said slowly. “No. _Gilbert, **no-**_ ”

“I snuck onto the Austerlitz battlefield to look for him,” Prussia said, picking his story back up. The telling was heavier now; more weary and defeated than the earlier anger. “Nobody had touched him- I think his horse threw him, or he just fell off, I wouldn’t have trusted that kid anywhere near a horse without close supervision. I figured I could grab him and take him back to Berlin, keep him away from Austria until I’d strengthened the Empire and then he’d be _fixed,_ but-”

The pacing now seemed more of a distraction than a means to vent emotion.

“When I- found him, when I went to pick him up, he was- cold. I had no idea what was wrong with him but I took him back and waited and waited and eventually he woke up.”

There were more than a few glances towards the bedroom door.

“And when he woke up I called him the Holy Roman Empire and he said he was the Confederation of the Rhine-”

“You-!” was as much as France could manage, finding out only now, two hundred and fifty years later, that there _had_ been a Nation for one portion of his empire he’d puzzled over endlessly, trying to figure out why there wasn’t a Nation for it like with all the other client states.

“-and I called him Heinrich, and I kept him hidden,” Prussia said. “And he tried- _God,_ did he try- to be Heinrich. He tried to remember all the things Holy Rome could have, tried to remember Brandenburg and Austria and the wars and me but by the time I _knew_ it was all coming apart I couldn’t try to fool myself any longer. The-”

This memory hurt, and it showed.

“-the fucking _relief_ on the kid’s face when I called him Johannes for the first time, because he didn’t have to _pretend_ any longer-”

 ** _“Gilbert-”_** Feliciano begged.

“And then 1813 rolled around and he just fucking _collapsed,_ out of nowhere, and he wasn’t breathing and his heart wasn’t going and he was cold, and I waited _two whole years_ for him to wake up, and when he did I asked him his name and he told me it was the German Confederation and I called him Nikolaus and I told myself _‘this time, this one, I’m not going to fuck this one up, this one’s going to survive and stay strong’_ and for _fifty **years** _ I thought it was going to work, I kept _him_ hidden too, because I didn’t want people seeing him and deciding he was small and weak and a _target,_ a _threat_ that would be easy to get rid of like the Peace of Westphalia got rid of Holy Rome, because they wanted more _power-_ ”

Prussia was talking faster, and louder-

“And I was _doing_ it, I had Bismarck and we had the war and I _won_ and the Habsburgs were _out_ and I thought he’d be safe now, because Austria couldn’t get his hands on him, there was no one strong enough to take him from me; but I got back from Prague and _he was cold again._ ”

 _“ **No,**_ _Gilbert, **no!** ” _Feliciano insisted. “ _No,_ he _wasn’t-_ he’s _not-_ ”

 ** _“Five days!”_ ** Gilbert said frantically. “ _Five **fucking** days_ was how long it was between the dissolution of the German Confederation and the establishment of the North German Confederation but that was _all it took_ for Nikolaus to be gone and _this_ time, _this_ time I told myself I wasn’t going to hide him, that wasn’t working, if I shove him out there and everybody _knows him;_ if everybody _knows **Ludwig;**_ if he gets big and strong _quick **-**_ ”

“You filthy lying _son-of-a- **bitch** ,_” Nia spat at him. “You _kept this from us._ ”

“You never told him,” France said. “You never told him, not after Johannes-”

 _“Of **course** I never fucking told them!” _Prussia snapped. “You haven’t seen what it does to them! The only thing they have in common is they were all the same idea- they were all a hope for German unity! _It **never dies** ;_ _it only changes!_ ”

“But-” Feliciano said shakily. “Gilbert, if we just-”

He grabbed his brother-in-law’s sleeve.

“ _Please,_ if we try enough- We have Zell and Nia and Heinrich this time, they’re his **_children,_** they **_know_** _him_ , if we-”

Prussia shook him off.

“Don’t you _**get** it?_” he hissed. “Were you even fucking _listening?_ _Ludwig is **dead-**_ we can’t get him back! He’s-”

He groped for words.

“He’s _more_ than dead; he’s _worse_ than dead- if he was _dead,_ the body would be gone! But _it’s not, **he’s** _ the one who- None of them ever _died,_ they were _erased,_ they got _written over_ , _they’re **gone!**_ ”

Feliciano shook his head mutely.

“We’re never getting them back, Feliciano!” Gilbert snapped. “They’re not _dead;_ they’re not _out there,_ somewhere, waiting in some afterlife- _they don’t **exist**_ _anymore._ Heinrich, Johannes, Nikolaus- _Ludwig_ \- _they are **gone.**_ The only person in that bedroom is Dietrich Ehren; and he needs to learn who he is and learn about being a Nation without anybody trying to make him someone he’s not. He’s _not_ your husband; he’s _not_ your children’s father; _he is **not Germany.**_ And _like hell_ if you think I’m letting _you_ or _anyone else **fuck that up.**_ ”

Prussia straightened, and looked out over the room.

“He doesn’t need _fixing-_ he’s his own person, full and complete, and he needs the space to be that  before I subject him to you lot and your _shit ideas_ about who he ‘ _should’_ be. I’m taking him; and we’re _leaving._ ”

“You can’t just _walk away_ with an entire _Nation!_ ” France protested.

_“Watch me.”_

“We’re- we’re putting Germany back together!” Austria said. “If you leave with him _now_ how are we supposed to legitimatize _anything;_ how are we supposed to rebuild your brother’s government-”

“Dietrich Ehren,” Prussia said slowly. “Is _not_ my _brother._ He is _not_ Ludwig. I’ll be Dietrich’s teacher; I’ll be the person answers his questions and makes sure he can handle himself diplomatically and knows how governments and people work; but he _is not_ and _never will be **my brother.**_ ”

“Fine. _Germany’s_ government-”

“Yeah, funny you should say,” Prussia continued, voice completely devoid of any humor. “When I asked him his name? _He didn’t say Germany._ ”

“The United Republic of the German Lands,” Nia provided, voice thick. “ _Vereinigtenrepublik Germanenlanden_.”

“ _‘Flensburg to Chiaso; Geneva to Kittsee’_ , ” Gilbert quoted. “Northernmost Germany to southernmost Switzerland; westernmost Switzerland to easternmost Austria. _That’s_ what he told me his borders were.”

He looked at Switzerland, who had been silent this whole time.

“Have you heard of _Germanen für Landesstolz_ , Sebastian? I bet you have, they’ve been big news for most of the year now. Dietrich’s got the same _Germanen_ in him- the German people, the people who make their homes where people think German, speak German. You and Roderich, you’re _dead._ Dietrich’s replaced you- you just haven’t dissolved yet.”

Prussia turned, and reached for the door.

“And with something like _that_ weighing on him, _like **hell**_ am I going to keep him around any of you. He hasn’t even been alive half an hour yet- he doesn’t need to meet the people he’s killed until I bring him back.”

His hand was on the knob when Feliciano spoke again.

“I sold my soul,” he blurted; and started to follow. “Gilbert, _I sold my soul_ to the demon in the house so we could get out. I promised it my soul _both times;_ and after this one I just- I couldn’t face Ludwig. He’d done horrible things but I- I thought Ludwig could be _saved_ and I knew I _couldn’t_ so I didn’t-”

By the time he got into the bedroom, Gilbert and Dietrich were gone.

* * *

 

Rémy was the one who picked him up when Heinrich finally flew into New York City.

“Is _Babbo_ at your place or do I have to go to the UN?” he asked.

“Prussia and Nia ran him off,” Rémy told him. “He’s back in Venice. Did anyone tell you about what your uncle said? About Dietrich?”

“Who’s Dietrich?” Heinrich asked; and Rémy winced, and looked at him through the rearview mirror of the rental car.

“Don’t let Nia tell you about,” he advised. “Get it from Zell. You’re… you’re going to want to talk to Nia. She hasn’t- taken any of this very well.”

That was the entirety of the conversation for the drive from the airport to Zell’s apartment in Yorkville, which was strangely full of boxes.

“She’s got a while for maternity leave,” Rémy said. “What was going to happen was we both went back to Berlin for the time she had, see him start growing up- I was going to be a stay-at-home father and Zell was either going to get a new job in Germany or keep this one and be gone part of the year, but-”

He sighed.

“She doesn’t want to be in Germany. Not now. Anywhere in Europe but Germany or Italy. We’ll probably end up in Belgium, because I won’t have to quit my job then, and then Zell has the option of the EU _or_ the UN.”

The two men spent another moment looking at the boxes, and then, quietly, from the next room, Zell called: “Heinz?”

Heinrich followed the sound into the living room, where Zell was seated in a recliner, holding the baby. He walked over and gave her a hello kiss and hugged her as best he could, one-armed.

“Say hello to your uncle, Louis,” Zell murmured to her newborn, who didn’t seem interested in anything of the sort. “How’s Berlin?”

She could feel her brother shutter at the question.

“It hurts,” he said, and pulled away. “Rémy said I should ask you about Uncle Gilbert, and somebody called Dietrich?”

“He’s _gone,_ ” Nia said viciously, and Heinrich hadn’t seen her on the couch, otherwise he would have waited to ask-

“ _Vati’s **gone** ,”_ she continued. “He’s not dead, he’s _gone,_ and there’s somebody else- _Vereinigtenrepublik Germanenlanden_ ; _Dietrich-_ walking around in his _place-_ ”

“Nia-” Zell said, trying to get her to calm down.

“He _feels_ like _Vati_ but he’s _not;_ he’s _not_ and Prussia _knew_ this could happen it’s happened before, that’s how the Holy Roman Empire went and the Confederation of the Rhine and German Confederation-”

“He was-”

“I’m _glad_ he ran off!” Nia told them. “He- it’s more _secrets,_ Zell! What happened to when we were children, huh? They didn’t lie to us then! _Vati_ was always honest about his life, even when it hurt him-”

“ _Especially_ when it hurt him,” Heinrich heard Zell mutter.

“-but then there was _Christmas,_ and now _this_ , and he- _he-_ ”

Nia looked at her brother sharply.

“He said why he wouldn’t talk with _Vati_ ,” she said. “It was because he sold his soul to the demon in the house, both times, and he was too _scared_ to tell him! _Vati_ thought right up until- until we _lost_ him that he’d _done_ something, that Veneziano didn’t _want_ him any longer!”

The apartment was quiet. Rémy had come in at some point, Heinrich noticed, and was leaning in the doorway.

“I need to go to Venice,” he said. “If _Babbo_ did that, and now _Vati_ ’s gone, he’s going to need the family he’s got left.”

“Let him do it himself!” Nia snapped. “He left _us_ without any explanations!”

“He messed up,” Heinrich acknowledged. “But if we don’t go, then _we_ messed up, too.”

Nia glared at him, fuming.

 _"Fine,”_ she told him, standing. “ _You_ go to Venice. _I’m_ going back to Copenhagen.”

Rémy stepped aside to let her out of the room, then came over.

“You weren’t wrong,” Heinrich said. “She’s not taking this well.”

“If someone has to go to Venice,” Zell told him. “I’m glad it’s you. I- I’m angry at them too. It’s probably a good thing that Uncle Gilbert went off, because I don’t want- I _can’t_ see them. Not for a while.”

* * *

Five days later, Nia was in Copenhagen, back at Fægteklubben Trekanten, watching her students face off against each other with the épée. Mari and Hagen were carefully trying to interact with her as little as possible, not liking the inscrutable black mood she was in.

“Is it Berlin, you think?” Mari asked Hagen quietly when they took a water break.

“She’s German,” he replied. “I wouldn’t be surprised-”

The gym door opened, which was a little strange, because classes were at a scheduled time and it was certainly past that-

They didn’t recognize the man, with the rolled up sleeves on his button down and the jeans and the sneakers and sunglasses in one hand, battered leather jacket draped over the arm, sword bag slung over his shoulder. People didn’t come to the gym looking like a fashion advertisement.

But Nia had stood when he walked in, and he was coming over. Mari and Hagen had move a little to let him by, and attempted to eavesdrop on the low, angry conversation.

“Italian or French?”

“Definitely Italian.”

Other people were stopping, now, and looking at the man and their trainer. Nia was a well-known element at Trekanten- not many fencing clubs could boast an Olympian as a trainer, and she’d done well for herself the few years she’d competed.

The man threw the jacket at her, and she caught it with a scowl. He unzipped one of the bag pockets and came up with a set of what were probably supposed to be leather fencing gloves, though they looked rather more… _Renaissance_ than they probably should.

Nia fastened up the jacket and pulled the gloves on and the man unzipped the top of the fencing bag and revealed some _very_ non-regulation weapons, pairs of longswords and arming swords and rapiers.

“Um,” Hagen said. “They’re not going to-”

Nia grasped one of the swept-hilt rapiers and pulled it out. This was a proper rapier, stiff the way modern fencing swords weren’t, point sharp and deadly. The man took the other and tipped the bag towards her, offering. After a moment of consideration, Nia reached in and pulled out a parrying dagger.

“They are _definitely_ going to,” Mari said.

The man placed the bag off to the side and they faced off on the mat.

“What the _hell_ are you doing!” someone yelled from across the room; and it was a good question- real swords, Nia with minimal protection for her upper body and hands but none for her face and the man with _nothing-_

They both moved at what looked like the same time- probably Nia was first, given the mood she was in- but-

Professional fencing matches were _quick;_ mostly footwork until the thrust. The first hit of a match could come in seconds.

This was nothing like that.

When people at tournaments asked the name of their fencing coach, and Mari and Hagen said _‘Nia Beilschmidt’_ , they were used to good-natured frustration, maybe an envious sigh, from the person asking as the name of their coach told them _why_ their young opponent was so damned _fast_.

It was _possible_ to avoid Nia’s thrusts, or get past her defense, because she made mistakes like anyone else, and there were other people who were also fast.

It was just _very difficult._

But when Nia lunged at the man he _twisted,_ away and down and around, and her rapier went through the space where his head _had_ been- it was a full six inches from that position by then, and his rapier was blocking her parrying dagger and deflecting it in the direction of her motion so she shot past him.

He smacked her on the side with his free hand as she went by- proving that, if _he’d_ had an off-hand weapon, and they’d been fighting a _true_ duel, she’d left her ribs exposed to him and could have been staggering away with a deflated lung.

Seven seconds after the first lunge, and they were facing each other again from opposite sides of the mat; and going at it again, not waiting to realign or re-establish their footing or _anything_.

Everyone in the gym had stopped now, and was watching as the man avoided every single strike Nia tried to land, either with a similar twist or by backing up, showing every exposed spot he _could_ have exploited with another smack. They didn’t fight in a straight line and they didn’t seem to care for the boundaries of the mat and they didn’t care about any rules that prohibited the use of feet and hands, ‘dirty fighting’- they didn’t seem to care about _anything_ except the fight.

The closest they ever got to a proper professional fencing match was the occasional touch of the man’s rapier point to somewhere on Nia’s shoulders or torso, seemingly just to prove he could. When this happened, they both backed up and faced off again.

It only ended when Nia was out of breath and overheating from exercising the leather jacket, now slightly more battered, in the enclosed gym. After one of the man’s evasions, she turned towards him and let the rapier tip drop to rest on the floor, dagger hanging loosely in the other hand. The man, who had already turned to face her next attack, stopped and straightened.

They replaced the swords and the arming dagger. Nia took off the gloves, put them back in the side pocket of the fencing bag, and handed the man the jacket.

He cupped one of her cheeks with a hand and kissed then other; then put the jacket back over his arm, picked up the bag, put his sunglasses on, and walked out of the gym.

Nia came over to the water cooler where Mari and Hagen were still standing and leaned on her arms against the wall, head bowed, regaining her breath.

“My uncle,” she answered to their unspoken question. “He wanted to talk, later, and didn’t want me coming angry. He’s the one who taught me- I didn’t learn how to fence, I learned how to _fight._ ”

Hagen wordlessly handed her a water bottle, and she took it. After a few drinks, she turned and put her back to the wall.

“Get back on the mat,” she ordered them. “There’s still some time this lesson block.”

* * *

“Could I have a minute, Rémy?”

He looked at his wife, standing in the foyer of her father’s house. The Berlin house on the Spree had survived the fire- it had jumped the Spree just north of the Museuminsel, taking out a section of Mitte, burning a few more parks and scorching Humbolt University; but the delayed summer rain had pounded down before it spread to Charité Hospital, or jumped the Spree again to threaten the state museums and the house, saving the city where humans couldn’t.

Now, with Prussia gone, and no Nation to claim the house, they had shut it up. The interior doors were closed and locked, the curtains drawn, the pictures and wall hangings taken down and wrapped for safekeeping, the furniture covered in dropcloths.

Rémy picked up the last two bags of food they were clearing out last, just before they locked the front door, and, on their way down to the drive towards one of the relief centers to donate what would go rotten and spoiled otherwise, the iron front gate. Once they’d finished in Berlin, they’d drive back to Strasbourg, and the new house they’d bought there.

“Yeah. I’ll be in the car.”

The door closed, and Zell looked down at Louis, who was approaching six weeks old.

“I never thought you wouldn’t know this house,” she told her son. “Or your grandfather.”

The house smelled of chemical cleaner and fresh air, but before long it would be dusty and stale, lifeless, a ruinous state for a Nation’s home.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen,” Zell continued. “Nations aren’t supposed to die like that. _Regular_ dying, dying and getting back up in a couple minutes, a few hours, day or two, maybe a week- that, that would have been justified. The government was dead and his- his heart was half-destroyed.”

If the house had been on the other side of the island, she’d have been able to see it, a seven-and-a-half kilometer wide swath of destruction from the Spree to the ruins of the Opera House in Charlottenburg, nothing but ash and burned rubble, the twisted and melted steel supports of buildings sticking up jaggedly in places.

“But even a Nation’s death would be too much. The people still _thought_ of themselves as German, still _think_ \- he shouldn’t have dissolved. And even with what Uncle Gilbert said, about the Holy Roman Empire, and the Confederation of the Rhine, and the German Confederation- we weren’t in a situation like that. We weren’t in turmoil, we weren’t about to change anything; there was _no reason-_ ”

Zell looked up from her son to the empty house.

“It wasn’t right. There’s something else happening here, something…”

And the house was empty and Germany was gone, more than dead- but it was something that had to be said.

“I’m going to find out what went wrong, _Vati._ For you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End Part 1
> 
> Part 2 begins with 2052: July


	22. 2052




	23. 2052: July

**_July_ **

 

It was an itch under his skin, all the activity. The frenetic movement of people and the massive influx of foreigners made him jittery; the endless news reports and updates and his people’s low-level excited anticipation made his head buzz.

His boss had watched him all morning, and when it became clear he was completely unable to focus on his job for more than ten minutes at a time, he’d been dismissed for the day.

“Come back tomorrow or the day after,” Mr. Küçük told him. “When the flies in your head have settled down.”

Mr. Küçük had laughed a bit at himself, in the sort of slight wheezing way he had, and everybody else who worked in the ocakbaşı chuckled along or smiled or ignored him, depending on how much they were willing to humor him.

“I don’t know how much longer I’ll be here,” he’d admitted to Mr. Küçük before he left. “My cousin wants us to go back- home, for the Olympics. And probably to stay.”

There was a general outcry at this; most of it along the lines of _‘your cousin is an asshole; make him go back by himself!’_

“ _‘Home’_?” İsmet asked shrewdly, picking up on the way he’d hesitated before the word.

“I’d make İstanbul home if I could,” he admitted. “There- that’s my cousin’s home. His family lives there. He has obligations. And I guess I do too, but it was _his_ idea to keep me away from them so long, moving around, to have some time to grow up a bit first.”

“Stay,” Asil urged. “You’re, what, you said you just turned twenty-one? Go for the Olympics, fulfill your obligations, and come back.”

“I really can’t,” he said regretfully. “This thing I have- it’s a duty. It _has_ to be me. I guess I could be back in İstanbul someday for business, I’m not really sure how it all works yet. And if I will be, I’ll call ahead and tell you all I’m coming.”

“You _must_ come by mine for tea before you leave,” Mr. Küçük told him.

“You’re being pretty circumspect about this _‘thing’_ you have,” İsmet said suspiciously.

He had to think about how to answer that.

“It was my cousin’s brother’s job,” he told them. It was as truthful as he could get. “When he died, I ended up with it, but my cousin wouldn’t let me take it until I’d gotten out from under their influence for a while. I guess he decided I’m mature enough now, or something. I really don’t know how he thinks. I’d really rather stay here.”

İsmet was about to say something else when Mrs. Uzun, one of the regulars, spoke up from her table.

“Leave the boy alone,” she said. “Can’t you tell it’s something important he’s got to do? If he doesn’t want to explain, he doesn’t have to explain. It’s for his family, that should be enough of a reason- _surely_ you know how that is, İsmet Küçük.”

İsmet flushed a little at being told off. He’d had things he’d wanted to do with his life that weren’t working with his father, but it _was_ the family business.

“Turks go to Germany for work and then come home,” Mrs. Uzun continued firmly. “Why should it be any different when a German comes here and works?”

* * *

Eglantine Walker Kirkland found it easy to accept a lot of things in life. Getting kidnapped and held in what amounted to Fairyland helped with that, even if she couldn’t resist shaking her head and sighing whenever she passed by certain sections in libraries and bookstores.

Currently, she was pondering the question Cassiel had given her as an exercise, studiously trying to ignore the ‘board meeting’ of Navin Technologies.

They had a lot of these ‘board meetings’; which were more a potential hazard of Cassiel Navin possessing a brain that could string two thoughts together than any emergency or schedule. As soon as he had an idea that developed into the planning stage, the rule was he had to vet it with at least three other people on the board.

Since the entire board was currently sharing a set of hotel rooms due to the Olympics and not wanting to go apartment hunting in the middle of a major international event, this was not, at the moment, a difficult proposition.

Payton’s hands were flashing all over the place, trying to keep us with the steady stream of back-and-forth Ms. Honda and Mr. Brynjarsson were doing over Cassiel’s latest idea. The man nominally in charge of the whole thing was watching intently, contributing something else about every third sentence. Ásdís- who’d insisted she _not_ be called Ms. Geirsdottir, by Eglantine, at least, was being disapproving all by herself over in her corner, glaring over the top of Eglantine’s head at Ms. DiAngeli.

Eglantine wondered about Ms. DiAngeli sometimes. She knew how humans sensed to magic, and she knew how the Tylwyth Teg sensed to magic, and she knew how Nations sensed to magic. Ms. DiAngeli wasn’t like any of that. Every so often she wondered if the rest of the board knew that.

If no one else knew, Ásdís probably did. Ásdís knew just about everything about the company by now.

Eglantine considered putting up a sound barrier. It was something she’d learned to do on the London Underground, when she rode places with Grandfather.

Grandfather was the one who’d arranged to have her work with Cassiel. Eglantine thought it was probably supposed to be an object lesson, and a warning.

_This is what magic does to humans. Be careful._

It would have been a good lesson, Eglantine reflected for a moment, if she’d believed she was human.

She’d noticed different- scentstastessights of people, over her eleven-and-some years of life. There were people like the teachers and other children at school, who were ‘human’. Then there were people like her mother, who looked like she should be human, but smelledtastedlooked more like a Nation.

Then there were people like Cassiel, and Mr. Brynjarsson- and herself, she suspected- who smelledtastedlooked completely different from that.

Eglantine had tried to draw a diagram once, tried to fit everyone she knew well on the scale Grandfather had somewhat-confusedly explained one day- human to Nation. Her teacher was the human end, Grandfather on the Nation. Her mother had originally been in the middle; but after some careful consideration, Eglantine had erased her and moved her up a little closer to the Nation end of things. Ms. Honda had the middle place on the diagram now.

Her mother’s mark had drifted, slowly, off to the side of the line. The very first time she’d met Cassiel, he went on the diagram, too- far off to the side. After she’d met Mr. Brynjarsson, Eglantine had connected the dots for Cassiel, England, and her teacher to make a triangle. Mr. Brynjarsson ended up somewhere in the area between her mother and Cassiel. Eventually, for the sake of easier information comparison, she’d filled in Ásdís’s name where her teacher’s had been.

Serafina DiAngeli was a dot on a completely different sheet of paper. Eglantine still hadn’t placed herself on the triangle diagram. Maybe it was time to add another axis and expand into a mobile.

She decided against putting up the sound barrier. Cassiel and Tomoko had come up with some way to dampen the feel of the magic he put in the things he sold so the people who were like Ásdís didn’t get instinct screaming at them that it was deadly dangerous; but she didn’t know how to do that yet, and Ásdís was right there. The woman had gotten desensitized to magic quite a bit over the years, but Eglantine would still feel bad if she jumped or something running into it when she wasn’t expecting it.

The question Cassiel had given her as an exercise was: _‘How would you verify the existence of a soul?’_

She’d written it at the top of a page in her notebook. Below that were the clarification answers she’d gotten Cassiel to answer, a bit perplexedly. Eglantine had realized that Cassiel hadn’t _realized_ why they were important things to know, and suddenly had a much better insight into how Cassiel worked. She hadn’t decided if she liked his ‘do it and see what happens’ approach.

_‘Is the verification theoretical or practical?- Practical’_

_‘Is the person doing the verification currently alive in the conventional sense?- Yes’_

_‘Is the person in possession of natural magical capabilities?- Either, unknown, not necessarily’_

That particular one had an emphatic question mark written next to the answer, along with an angrily-underlined _VAGUE! CONTRADICTORY!_

_‘Cultural and religious background of the person doing the verification?- German, Italian, Catholic and Jewish, why does it matter?’_

Eglantine, reviewing that answer, shook her head sadly. That was _the_ mostimportant part- everything she knew about magic told her it worked best when fulfilling a sort of preset formula or mold. There were things, ideas, reasonings that just became _entrenched_ in worldviews; and you had no idea which ones you were working with unless you knew the background people were coming from. She had a couple theories about it, actually- one was that this particular guideline for magic explained a lot about why Nations were a thing in the first place; and felt of magic as strongly at least of what had been in the court of the Tylwyth Teg.

Another was that there were some of those ideas and reasonings that had some sort of basis in How Things Were- and stories about death and souls were one of those.

To that end, she had spread out, the table she’d claimed for herself, a King James translation of the Bible, Cassiel’s copies of the Conferenza Episcopale Italiana Bible and the Emser Bible (with translations into English bookmarked on her tablet), a couple different English translations of the Torah, a compilation of Grimm’s Fairy Tales that was turning out to be wholly _useless_ , an English translation of _Die Nibelungenlied,_ and the biggest book she could find out of Cassiel’s library, her grandfather’s library, and the public library she used in England on Norse mythology, and a book on Roman mythology, selected the same way as the Norse mythology.

The _Nibelungenlied_ translation was more interesting as a comparison to the things she’d seen under the dwarves’ mountains than actually helpful, Eglantine decided. That was relegated to the floor, along with Grimm’s Fairy Tales.

* * *

Heinrich woke in the early morning, not the sound of his children trying to sneak out of bed, or demanding breakfast, or complaining that one of the other ones had woken them up; but to the morning summer sun.

Sighing at the early awakening, he gave into the inevitable and got up, carefully re-tucking the covers around Adriana and closing the curtains before he left for the bathroom to get dressed for the day without disturbing his wife.

When he went into the small seating area in the first portion of the hotel suite, he found his father seated in one of the chairs, which had been turned to look out the window. His granddaughter was sitting quietly on his lap, one arm wrapped around her, the other pointing at things out the window. Heinrich stopped in the doorway to listen silently for a moment.

“-past Brandenburger Tor, and follow the road until you reach the Spree, and that’s where your _Papà_ grew up.”

“Can you take me, _Nonno_?” she asked, and Heinrich came in to scoop her up. She stuck her hands in his face when he tried to kiss her.

“No, no!” she told him. “No beard kisses!”

Heinrich chuckled a moment before turning more serious.

“Luisa,” he said to his daughter. “You know how people go to graveyards to visit people and leave things at their headstones?”

She nodded.

“Well, your _Groβvati_ was a Nation, just like _Nonno_ , so he doesn’t _have_ a grave or a headstone. We use the house we used to live in together like one, though- so when _Nonno_ goes to the house, he goes by himself, because he’s being alone with _Groβvati_.”

“Oh,” Luisa said. “Can _you_ take me, _Papà_?”

“We’ll see if Bertino and Mosè want to take the trip- and let’s ask _Tanten_ Zell and Nia when we see them later today, okay? They might want to come too, _schnuckiputzi_.”

Luisa pulled a face at him before planting her head in the crook of his neck and shoulder.

“Silly name,” she muttered.

“Yes, it is,” Heinrich agreed; then looked to his father.

“Are you all right?” he asked, switching from Italian to German to gain a little privacy.

“I think so,” Feliciano answered quietly in the same language. “It’s _different_ here, now. Berlin was-”

It took him a moment to say the word.

“- _gutted_ , by the Fire; but they’ve rebuilt and you can’t tell it was damaged from the ground, most places. It’s changed enough since- since we were all here, together. It doesn’t hurt as much as it would.”

“That’s good. If you need-”

Feliciano nodded, and Luisa squirmed.

“ _Auf Italienisch,_ ” she complained, using up almost her entire knowledge of German. “Breakfast?”

“When your _Mamma_ and brothers wake up, Luisa.”

* * *

Zell and Rémy Beilschmidt were the last to arrive to the pre-event appointed meeting place, a small family park near the stadium complex. Heinrich and Adriana and their children had arrived first, parting ways with Feliciano, who had to go be Official. Nico and Diana Agresta showed up next; Diana happily listened to her young cousins-in-law’s babbling about the upcoming fencing match.

Nico leaned against the retaining wall, watching the crowd anxiously. Heinrich gave him a questioning look, but he just shook his head.

Zell and Rémy appeared not too long after, Louis running ahead to see his cousins.

“I need to talk to you all,” Nico told the adults after everyone had gotten through their hellos.

They all looked at each other.

“Mosè, Bertino,” Adriana said. “Leave _Zia_ Diana alone and go with your sister and Louis to the playground for a little bit, okay?”

Louis, who was four and old enough to know when adults were trying to get rid of him, sulked, but led his cousins to the playground. The adults kept half an eye on them as Nico edged into the group and it closed into a small huddle.

“Okay, what?” Zell asked.

“Uh, well- so Diana’s pregnant,” Nico said, looking agonized.

“Really?” Adriana asked, slightly confused by his reaction. “Congratulations.”

“I- you know about Cass?”

“We know a _lot_ of things about Cass, Nico,” Rémy said. “He’s not very subtle about anything. You can tell by the _thing_ he’s building.”

He gestured to the skyline in front of him, indicating a building in the finishing stages of construction that would be one of the taller structures in Berlin once it was open.

“The thing with the him, and what he does, and yeah-”

 _“Nico,”_ Heinrich said in exasperation.

Nico dropped his voice.

“The magic thing.”

“ _That_ thing,” Zell said after a second. “Yeah.”

“I-” he shot a guilty, pleading look at his wife, who looked at him a moment before nodding, once, and twisting her hand into the back of his shirt.

Nico raised a hand into the empty space in the center of the group, and yellow-green light played in ribbons over it. Diana, who’d been prepared, merely flinched at the feel of magic- but Zell and Adriana, caught unprepared, started stepping back. Heinrich grabbed his wife’s arm, leaning into her to try and make her feel safer while still blocking the casual display of magic from anyone going by. Zell caught herself mid-step and swallowed heavily, visibly steeling herself and refusing to move farther.

“So _that’s…_ ” Rémy trailed off, transfixed.

Nico let the magic fade.

“Why do you react like that?” Heinrich asked his sister, puzzled. “Cato did, too, when Cass- at Christmas. It’s not- I feel like I’m looking off the edge of a cliff, but if I jumped I might fly-”

“I’ve been assaulted, Heinrich,” Zell said flatly. “Having _that_ around is the same feeling I had when they were dragging me off to beat me and I knew I couldn’t get away. I _know_ that with this I won’t be, but-”

“Sorry,” Nico apologized, feeling completely inadequate about it.

Zell just shook her head.

“So Diana’s pregnant,” Nico said again. “And I- it’s not like I was just doing it naturally since I was born or anything, but-”

“You want to know if your kid will end up with that,” Rémy finished for him.

“How _did_ you find out you could?” Adriana asked.

“I-” Nico started to turn red with embarrassment. “It’s- I was eleven, okay, and _Papà_ had insisted on reading all of us the Harry Potter books for some family togetherness time, and I wanted to be Ginny Weasley- _stop laughing_.”

“I’m not,” Heinrich said, smiling with amusement. “It’s cute.”

“It is _not_ ,” Nico snapped. “I was the youngest kid of five and everybody already had _something,_ Cenzo was the creative one and Cato was the smart one and Ditta was the one everybody liked and Vasco was the athletic one and I didn’t think I had anything, only it turned out I had _magic,_ and then I couldn’t use it around anybody or tell anybody because I knew that wasn’t something anyone was actually _supposed_ to be able to do! It’s not like I can tell them _now_ , after- you know.”

“Why not tell _Tio_ Tonio?” Zell asked. “You still talk to him, he hasn’t disowned you.”

“Oh yeah,” Nico muttered, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Tell the _one_ person on my side of the family who still talks to me that the family fuck-up also has _magic,_ which incidentally is the reason his favorite son died.”

“You are _not_ the family fuck-up,” Rémy told him heatedly.

“So who is, then?” Nico shot back.

Rémy fumbled for an answer, not wanting to offend anyone.

“It’s okay, Rémy,” Heinrich sighed. “We know you were going to say Nia.”

“I thought it was going to be Cass,” Zell said, a little puzzled. “Why Nia, Heinz?”

“She still won’t talk to _Babbo_ ,” he answered. “It’s been _four years,_ Zell.”

“It took me a whole year to talk to him again,” she reminded him.

“Yeah, but you were working through your grief, and everything. Nia hasn’t- she’s just stayed as angry as she was at the beginning this whole time. _Babbo_ still has to wait for me to tell her how she’s doing, or _Zio_ Lovino, if he’s gone up to fight with her recently.”

“So it’s just taking her longer.”

“Is our baby going to be magical?” Diana asked, halting the tired argument before it could go further. “Because I’d like to know beforehand. Nico says he doesn’t think his siblings were, but were any of you, or your children…?”

“I wasn’t and Nia wasn’t,” Heinrich said. “And I think Adriana and I would have noticed if any of ours were, living with _Babbo_ and all. _He_ would have noticed and told us.”  

“I wasn’t,” Rémy said.

“Louis hasn’t shown any signs,” Zell said.

“Well, about you?” Diana asked her.

Zell looked them all over for a moment.

“There’s a pattern here,” she said. “You and me and Adriana all have an immediate flight reaction from magic, and I know Cato did too. But Nico and Heinrich and Cass jumped on it- or at least know they can, and kind of want it.”

“Are you saying it’s a gender thing?” Adriana asked. “Because that’s-”

“No,” Zell interrupted her. “It’s a Nation thing. The four of us don’t have Nation parents.”

“Uh-”

“ _Biologically_ , Heinrich,” his sister sighed. “I’m adopted. Cato was adopted. Diana and Adriana married into the family. But you and Nico and Cass all have two Nation parents, biologically. If, you’ve just got the one-”

Everyone looked at Rémy.

“I’m not really sure how I feel about magic,” he admitted. “But it’s more like Heinrich than you, Zell, sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” his wife told him. “And- Øystein just has Norway, _his_ mother was human too. I _saw_ him do magic, in Switzerland’s house, when we were waiting for answers.”

“Two parents, two parents…” Nico was muttering to himself. “That’s- me, and you, Heinrich; and Nia, and Cass and Gianna-”

“Miervaldis,” Zell added. “And Pasha and Rozete.”

“I was with Miervaldis, in the House,” Rémy said slowly. “We found a- a magic workshop, I guess. We were looking at things there and he just… disappeared. He might have set something off with magic, by accident. When Cass tried doing magic there, he had that stuff happen to him, and we never _did_ figure out why Miervaldis that breakdown, or whatever it was.”

“Halya Adnan!” Heinrich remembered suddenly. “ _That’s_ who we’re forgetting!”

“So- three of nine positive to magic, at least,” Diana said. “And then if we count Miervaldis-”

“I don’t know how long Cass has been doing magic, but he’s been getting his hands on everything he could read about it since we were little,” Nico said. “So Gianna probably has exposure, even if she’s never said anything.”

“Nia didn’t react badly to magic when Cass healed Zheng,” Heinrich added.

“So; maybe six of nine,” Diana continued. “Two-thirds chance?”

Zell and Heinrich spent a long moment looking at each other.

“We could test it,” Heinrich said eventually, reluctantly. “I have kids, and it’d be the same sort of ancestry match. You could do the hand thing again, Nico, and we could see how they react-”

“I’d rather know _now_ if it’s likely Louis will,” Zell said firmly.

Adriana thought about it a moment, and shivered; but said: “Okay.”

 _“Louis!”_ Rémy called. _“Kids!”_

They detached themselves from the playground and came back.

“Nico’s got something to show you all, okay?” Adriana told her children. “So stay quiet and watch.”

Nico looked around for a minute, making sure there were no other people around, before he crouched down and uncurled his hands in front of him, palm up. As his fingers extended, the green-yellow light of magic bloomed.

Louis startled and backed up into his father’s legs, trying to hide from it. Rémy reached down to hold him reassuringly.

Luisa and her brothers stared, enchanted.

“ _Papà_ ,” Luisa said urgently. “It’s so _pretty._ ”

“I- **_NO,_** _Gilberto!_ ” Heinrich snapped, pulling one of his sons away before he could stick his hands into the magic. Adriana picked him up, and his twin brother Mosè turned away from the light to demand attention as well.

Nico closed his hands, shutting off the magic, and straightened up. He and Diana exchanged a somewhat resigned look.

“…If Øystein could,” Rémy said slowly. “And- there’s Tomoko, with just one parent. She’s working for Cass now- I could probably-”

“It’s easier, once you’ve started, not to stop,” Nico told him heavily. “The… cliff. Once you jump off it, you _will_ fly; but the price is never landing again.”

* * *

Definitely Pavel Laurinatis’s favorite part of his job was the Olympics. Sure, other people got to see it- but how many got to see it as _he_ did, from the politics end of things, from behind the scenes?

For instance- he was currently following Russia down to the warm-up area for the Olympic fencers, to dispense a small matter of political goodwill.

The gym set aside for warm-ups was seeing good use. It was somewhat busy, but definitely not crowded, and Pavel and his uncle got over to the far side of the room by hugging the wall.

“Russia,” they were greeted politely.

Ivan clasped his hands behind his back and stood on the girl’s other side, towering over both her and her fencing team’s trainer.

“Kyonig,” he told her perfunctorily.

Well, Pavel thought, eyeing the two them, maybe this wasn’t going to go as well as he and Pajari had hoped.

“You’ve gotten bigger since the last time I saw you,” he told Kyonig- and it was a little surprising, actually, how true it was. She’d been a child all of four years ago, and now she looked like she was a little older than ten and ready to barrel headlong into fifteen, if she kept growing as she had been.

She smiled at him.

“I know I have,” Nadja said. “Is everyone else still making comments about it?”

Pavel shrugged in place of agreeing. It _was_ apparently astonishing to most other Nations how fast she’d grown, but it only made sense, to him. It was a lot easier to get people behind a country, especially when it already had an administrative and economic base to work from, in modern times than it had been back in Dark Ages. Sometimes, the European Nations seemed a little stuck in the mindset of _‘this is how things were when I was growing, so this is how Nations will grow now’_.

“How’s your team?” he asked.

“I’m not a fencer, I don’t know.”

Nadja gestured at her three fencers, who were a significant majority of Kyonig’s first-ever Olympics team.

The Kyonivic fencing trainer cleared his throat a little.

“They made it this far,” he said.

“You need more than that to win,” Ivan told him, smiling dangerously.

“Well, perhaps they aren’t the _best_ ,” the trainer said stubbornly. “But that doesn’t matter. We’re here.”

“Who _are_ the best, then?” Ivan asked; and followed the trainer’s furtive glance. “Oh, _them?_ They are not competitors.”

He raised his voice.

“Lovino Vargas!” he called, ignoring the Kyonivic trainer’s muttered insistence that they _weren’t_ the best, they weren’t even following the _rules._ “I am surprised that you managed to bring those along! Surely you have work to be doing?”

Romano stepped back from his duel, dropping the point of his rapier.

“They always want Feliciano for these things,” he said. “Never me. I might as well not even _come_.”

Russia left Kyonig to walk over to Germany’s fencing team, somewhat curious.

“Well, surely if you aren’t needed you should be working with your own team?”

Lovino snorted.

“ _Italian_ fencers are the all-time Olympic champions. They don’t _need_ my help, because they’re going to kick everybody’s ass, unlike _these_ sorry fuckers.”

He jerked his thumb at the German team, who had taken seats along the wall to watch him duel with their trainer. The four fencers were the entire Olympic presence for their country. 

“Just because you’re speaking Italian doesn’t mean they can’t tell you’re insulting them,” Nia told him. “And my team is _wonderful,_ and they’re going to beat yours.”

“You’re just saying that because you have to,” her uncle accused.

“So are _you,_ ” she retorted. “Germany has fifteen gold medals in fencing. We field good teams.”

“That is only if you are counting West Germany’s medals in with unified Germany’s,” Russia put in mildly. “If we are not counting Cold War wins then I have eleven, which is four more than you post-Unification.”

 _“_ I have _fifty-five,”_ Romano reminded them both. “And we never had any political shit to divide up our medals, so the two of you can just sit quietly and take what’s coming to you.”

“My people are still going to win,” Nia maintained.

“ _Both_ of the kids you taught on are on the Danish team, and you’ve barely trained this collection of dancing fools,” Lovino said. “The _Danes_ are going to beat you, Nia- the _Danes_ and their six medals, _total_.”

“My team is _more_ than prepared,” Nia told him, obviously faking affront for the sake of the not-really-an-argument. “Silvester, you’re our best, don’t you feel prepared?”

Silvester was a rather short, thin young man with messy hair who jumped out of his seat when his trainer addressed him.

“I feel _incredibly_ prepared, ma’am.”

“See?”

“You make them call you _‘ma’am’_?” her uncle asked, trying not to look amused.

“It sounds very wrong when say ‘Ms. Beilschmidt’- no, they just _do_ that. They’re in awe of me.”

“Well I’m more in awe of _him,_ now,” one of her other fencers said, tilting her head at Romano.

“That’s just because you haven’t fought him, Erika,” Nia told her. “Once you fight him, all the fun is sucked out of it. It’s just infuriating, because he never has the good grace to lose.”

“Oh, I’m _infuriating?_ ” Lovino asked, and suddenly the tip of his rapier was resting in her armpit. A flick would sever the artery there. “Then why keep fighting me?”

“Because,” Nia told him, pushing the sword away. “After you, everyone else is too slow. And, someday, I’m going to _win._ ”

* * *

“Do we _really_ have to watch the fencing?” Dietrich Ehren complained. “It’s _boring_.”

“This is the closest thing to a team you _have_ , Germanenlanden, so shut up and watch,” Prussia told him.

“You know, I’m having a hard time believing _that’s_ why we’re watching _Germany’s_ only team.”

“One, my niece is in charge of this team so I _have_ to watch it and two, _where_ is your capital again?” Gilbert asked. “Oh yes, that’s right, _Stuttgart!_ Which is still _officially_ in Germany! _Shut up._ ”

“ _One,_ ” Dietrich said. “Your niece _hates_ me, and _two,_ you could have come by _yourself._ _I_ would much rather be watching the rhythmic gymnastics competition- or even, better yet! _Still in İstanbul._ ”

“You like that city _way_ too much for it being in a foreign country,” Prussia grumbled.

“Well, maybe if I’d ever _seen_ one of my own cities, I’d actually _like_ one of them!” Dietrich retorted. “But I’ve only ever seen the little bit of Berlin we walked through to get here, and let me tell you, Germany? Not at all impressive.”

Prussia’s already-annoyed expression _tightened_ in anger in the way that Germanenlanden knew meant he’d managed another casual body-blow to the memory of the man Gilbert liked to kid himself he didn’t see when he looked at Dietrich.

“I _liked_ İstanbul. In fact, the only place I’d _rather_ be than İstanbul is Moscow,” he said, just because he knew it would piss Prussia off even more.

It was a little bit of a lie, really. His second-favorite place in the world was actually Jerusalem. Moscow had been very interesting, but cold.

“Moscow is a _shithole,_ ” Gilbert muttered, and Dietrich let it lie, so they sat out the next hour and fifteen minutes of the Men’s Épée competition in cold silence, Gilbert focused intensely on the fencing and Dietrich trying to stay entertained by people-watching.

Of the German fencers, two of the three men fenced Épée. One was knocked out straight away in the quarter-finals, but the other made it through the semi-finals by a large margin. By that time, people-watching had proved not entertaining enough to hold Dietrich’s attention, and he’d started to flip through the program Gilbert had bought. There was a section on the German team, of course, and Dietrich read through it because they were _still_ his people, no matter how much it made him feel better to get Prussia infuriated by dismissing anything Germany-German out-of-hand.

The program made a bit of a deal over speculations about any possible bouts between Hagen Skovgaard and any of the men on the German team, which would actually happen now since both of them had gotten to the finals. Dietrich really didn’t want to think about Nia Beilschmidt, but there was a quote from her right there: “If we do have a Germany-Denmark bout,” she’d said when asked for her opinion on the matter. “Then I’m certain it will be for who gets what medal; and then I’ll just have all the more reason to be proud, because I’ll have won twice.”

By the time Hagen Skovgaard and Silvester Wetterman faced each other across the fencing mat, Dietrich realized that, even if he found her tone to be kind of arrogant, she’d been right. With the scores they’d managed, these men were just seeing who walked away with the gold.

When Wetterman did, Dietrich was fully prepared to politely applaud and smile a bit when Prussia wasn’t looking because he _was_ proud; but intense, hot-blooded, fierce _passion_ slammed into him at the same time as the deafening roar of victory from the stands as the Germans celebrated their team’s success and together they flattened him for a few long moments as Dietrich was left floundering, trying to keep from being swept away by his people-

His hand hurt, suddenly, and Dietrich grabbed onto that, and managed to notice that Gilbert had reached over and clamped his hand to the railing with one of his own, hard.

Dietrich yanked his hand away and it went numb from the sudden rush of blood.

“You learn to brace against things like that, eventually,” Prussia told him, and it was important to know and he’d remember that but Dietrich didn’t really want to hear it right now.

“They’re done,” he told Prussia. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Heinrich looked like he hadn’t stopped smiling since Wetterman had won the match, and Zell couldn’t blame him. With what little official clout the German Provisional Government had and sheer force of will, Nia and Armas had pushed a German team through the International Olympics Committee on the basis that Germany had never _officially_ stopped being recognized as a sovereign country by the United Nations, and since the Olympic Charter’s only requirement for a team’s origin was recognition by the UN, Germany was allowed to have a team; regardless of the fact that the host of the Summer Olympics was being officially given as ‘Berlin’ and not ‘Germany’.

Zell remembered that argument well- she’d quietly, helpfully, sent copies of the UN’s pertinent documents to her sister as proof. The Berlin-not-Germany rhetoric had almost been enough for her to send them to Switzerland and Austria, as well; but really all that would do was make things tenser between her and them and make herself look petty, which wasn’t at all what the workplace needed.

But they’d _won;_ they were hosting the Olympics and they’d only fielded one team of four people and they’d _won_ even when they technically didn’t even exist.

Germany was going to be noisy tonight. Already, from the road, she could hear car horns going in a cacophony, and somewhere not too far off, someone was blaring the German national anthem out of a sound system.

She could hear Heinrich singing along to it, under his breath: _‘Blüh' im Glanze dieses Glückes; Blühe, deutsches Vaterland!’_

The refrain seemed strange, here, at the Chancellery memorial.

The biggest Olympic stadiums and the Village had been built in the burnt-out downtown area, and had grown a shell of hotels, restaurants, and souvenir shops. It sat strangely in the middle of the natural regrowth of the city, which had been coming slowly forwards since the German Provisional Government had been declared. They Olympics sat rather like an island, a ring of cleared, undeveloped area between it and the city proper. Here, people had set up stalls, and the outdoor parties, and mostly just gotten along with their business.

The ring abutted the public park that gone up shortly after rebuilding efforts had begun- it probably had some official name somewhere, but Zell had heard people call it _‘Reichstag Park’_ , _‘Gedenkpark’,_ _‘Kanzleramt Park’_ , _‘Deutschland Park’_ -

The cornflower bouquet she’d bought had come from a man who called it _‘Neu Tiergarten’_ , and Zell thought that was probably the best. She’d have to remember to ask Armas or Sofie later if there were plans to replant Tiergarten. People had kept rebuilding out of the area it had been in, but whether that was out of habit, respect, or legal matters she didn’t know.

There were some people at the memorial- it was the smaller of the two, and usually people went to the Reichstag memorial, because it was closer to the rest of the city, and the Reichstag had been a tourist attraction before it burned. The only people Zell knew of who came to the Chancellery memorial more than once were people who’d worked for the government, or who had had family or friends who’d been in the Chancellery when it exploded.

Germany’s office had been in the Chancellery, near the Chancellor’s, and Zell remembered working two summers there, mostly as a gofer for him and Philipp Kreuze and the few other staff members assigned to their Nation; and Heinrich and Nia, not quite teenagers yet, spending a few days when their _Vati_ and Prussia both had to be in the office.

As with most memorials of the sort, the names of the dead had been engraved in stone. Zell and Heinrich knew where Philipp Kreuze’s was, on the far side, closer to the Spree. Most of the other people there looked about Zell’s age, or were young enough to have been her children, if she and Rémy had decided to go that route in their twenties instead of at nearly forty; but some of them were between that, young adults. Zell recognized a couple people, interns or career public servants who’d taken leave or been sick that day in September, who were leaving flowers and letters. One or two of them noticed her back, and they exchanged quiet nods of acknowledgement.

The first part of the monument you came to, if you followed the conventional route from the Reichstag memorial, was a large stone slab with the name of Chancellor writ large, the Cabinet in slightly smaller type below, above the eternal flame. As it always was, the slightly raised platform of the flame was littered with flowers, tea candles, and a few stones from people who were remembering the Fire generally, instead of someone in particular. Zell and Heinrich approached this part with the cornflower bouquet.

There was one person already there, and Zell and Heinrich had only been going to stand at the memorial for a few minutes, their children and spouses and Nico and Diana waiting some meters behind at the edge of the memorial for them to finish- but it was human reflex to glance at other people who came close, and Zell did it and the man already standing at the memorial did it at the same time and-

 _“Heinrich,”_ Zell whispered.

The man turned and strode away, slightly quicker than a walk, and Zell was frozen to the spot but Heinrich wasn’t, and ran a few steps to catch up, reaching out to grab his arm.

“Germanenlanden!” he said, and it was a little louder than normal but that didn’t matter, because Heinrich was a trained opera singer and he _projected,_ often when he wasn’t thinking about it. Everyone at the memorial heard him.

Over at the edge of the memorial, Rémy’s head snapped up.

Dietrich turned slightly to look at him, and Heinrich had to stop for moment, the almost-immediate identification of _Vati_ tripping over itself as the man in front of him defied that image. Dietrich wore glasses, which Ludwig had never done unless he was working in the office. His skin was a few shades darker, tanned, from being outside and in the sun often; his hair shorter, only a few inches long instead of slicked back; and where Ludwig had always kept sideburns of some length Dietrich had shaved them straight off, apparently finding some artful stubble around the lips more his style. The face was the same, the shape of the jaw and the nose and the same blue in the eyes and blonde in the hair, but beyond the cosmetic changes there was something just _different_ in the expression, something new or something missing, he couldn’t tell what.

It made him look… younger.

“You’re back,” he said eventually, and the little warm bit in his soul that said _your Nation, home_ was strange, connected to this man who could pass for a late twenty-something, a graduate student, perhaps, in something obviously practical. Heinrich would not have been surprised, if he’d seen a picture of this man in a magazine, to be informed that he was a software developer, or a social worker with a cause, who’d gotten his due recognition after some years of good, solid, dedicated work that was finally starting to yield appreciable results.

He’d lost muscle mass, Heinrich realized suddenly. Germanenlanden was still strong, yes, obviously so, with the same broad shoulders and height- but he’d lost the _bulk_ that Germany had had, replacing it with a little bit of fat in the stomach from good eating.

“ _Herr_ Beilschmidt,” Dietrich replied, trying not to look uncomfortable and failing.

“I… mostly use just Costa, these days,” Heinrich told him, reaching for him through the Nation-citizen bond out of habit, with a bit of reassurance and quiet pleasure, but Germanenlanden started visible at the contact, eyes widening.

“Hey,” Heinrich said, surprised some before he realized that he must not have _known_ that could happen, if the other person knew it was possible. “It’s okay, I’m just- It’s really good to see you. Dietrich.”

Dietrich blinked at him a few times before clearing his throat, self-consciously. “I- didn’t know you knew my name.”

Heinrich smiled at him a little and let go of his arm.

“Your people have been waiting for you,” Zell said from just behind him, and the cornflower bouquet appeared in his range of vision as she held it out towards Dietrich. The Nation took it, looking somewhat apprehensive. One of the ex-government people, who’d caught on to what was going on, clicked a picture. “Welcome home, Vereinigtenrepublik Germanenlanden.”

* * *

“I think we’re going to make out pretty well from this,” Armas said, after the four of them finished the toast to Wetterman’s victory.

Berlin wasn’t the headquarters of the German Provisional Government, which, if people were being honest about it, was basically just _Germanen für Landesstolz_ appointed to the position of administrators by the Austrian and Swiss governments.

Elke wasn’t sure if she’d ever wanted power; but if she had, it wasn’t like this. She now held the improvised title of German Legislative Administrator. It was vaguely defined, and people kept getting it mixed up with Sofie von Preuβen’s position of German Executive Administrator. At least Sofie knew what she was doing, making sure the few service departments they’d gotten up and running kept working. Elke had gotten stuck with the police and tax-collecting, to make sure the laws could still _be_ enforced and applied.

That was _not_ the job she wanted.

“We weren’t nearly as impressive as most other hosts,” Fadri put in. He’d tentatively been titled the German Provisional Liaison. What it amounted to was he went to Vienna and Bern, and came back with orders; which they all then tried to muddle through and make some sense of.

When they’d talked about German unity, it didn’t mean the ruin of Germany and ending up taking offhand orders and half-formulated plans from Austria and Switzerland. They only had to suffer this because the world was agreed- you couldn’t be a country without a Nation, and Germany’s Nation was dead.

Armas had explained to them what had happened to Ludwig Beilschmidt, to the best of his ability. Their former Press Secretary had been saddled with the unwieldy position of Liaison from the German Provisional Government to Exogenous Entities. It was Press Secretary and Minister for Foreign Affairs and the entire Diplomatic Corps, all rolled into one. The only reason he could manage it was because he’d grown up on a familiar basis, or had an acquaintance, with the Nation of every country they really _needed_ to talk to.

“Yes, but no one was _expecting_ us to do much of anything,” Armas argued. “So the fact that we managed a decent Opening Ceremony, and then _won,_ made a big impression.”

“How big of one?” Sofie asked.

“It varies,” Armas admitted. “Pretty big. But I know Austria and Switzerland definitely weren’t expecting it. They still think of us as the wreckage of Germany.”

There was a _way_ he said names of countries that they’d learned to hear that meant he was speaking of the Nations, instead. This was one of those times.

‘The wreckage of Germany’- yes, that had been apt. The government had been in ruins after the Fire of Berlin. Everyone with any real position and knowledge was dead, besides Sofie; and all the records had been lost, either blown apart in one of the initial explosions or locked in irretrievably heat-damaged hard drives. Later investigation had found that the back-ups had either mysteriously disappeared, or been sabotaged. 

They’d started off with no census, no tax records, no guides to infrastructure, no forms for filling out paperwork or systems to file them to once they’d _made_ paperwork forms-

Everything- the new census, taxes, records and files and indices and lists- ran through Austria and Switzerland. Technically, the Austrian and Swiss governments owned the information- it was hosted on servers, physically _in_ Austria and Switzerland, that the Provisional Government was still paying them back for, or renting directly from them.

But now- this was something they’d done for _themselves_.

The hotel suite the four of them had taken out in Berlin for the duration of the 40th Summer Olympics had a good view to the main stadium, where they’d held the Opening Ceremony the night previously. Today had been the first day of the games, and right now, the stadium was illuminated with the late afternoon sun.

“How did we even _keep_ this Olympics?” Elke asked, finally voicing the question that had been plaguing her since the initial announcement that Germany, despite not technically being in existence any longer, was still considered the host.

“Either someone has great faith in us,” Sofie said. “Or someone wanted to see us fail.”

“I’m going to choose to see it as a vote of confidence,” Fadri told them.

“Well, it’s _my_ job to assume someone was trying to hurt us in the eyes of the international community by giving it to us to fuck up and embarrass ourselves with,” Armas grumbled. “Unfortunately, the prime candidates for setting up a situation like that are the ones we’re currently technically answering to.”

The informal meeting went quiet for a bit. None of them _wanted_ to think that Austria or Switzerland, country or Nation, would arrange that, but-

The fact remained was that, somewhere out there, the United Republic of the German Lands was running free under the tutelage of the former Kingdom of Prussia; and there hadn’t been sight or sound of them for four years.

Four years of waiting for the day you woke up and had your death staring you in the face was a lot of time to plot to keep it from happening.

“The International Olympic Committee is Swiss-” Elke started to point out, but the room’s door slammed open, cutting her off.

“How late am I?” Prussia demanded, and was met with silence for a few moments.

 _“Four fucking **years,** ”_ Sofie answered him, choking up. She stood to hug her Nation, and Gilbert held her tightly, murmuring apologies before taking the chair Armas grabbed for him, everyone rearranging themselves to fit five people at the four person table.

“Dietrich and I are coming to the Gala,” Gilbert informed them. “It’s his beautillion event, so if I grab you to run interference, you’d better be ready. This everybody?”

“Basically,” Armas told him. “Elke, Fadri- Gilbert Beilschmidt, still technically the Kingdom of Prussia. In case you hadn’t noticed.”

“You four have been running the whole country by yourselves?” Prussia asked. “I’m impressed.”

He looked around the table.

“But this is really fucking pathetic.”

“We are the German _Provisional_ Government,” Elke felt the need to point out. She had half a mind to punch him, or at least have some stern words with him later, for disappearing on them the way he had. Their job would have been much easier if they’d had a Nation around to prove their legitimacy; and Prussia _himself_ was a Nation. He should have given more thought to civic responsibility.

“Yeah, and you know what that ‘Provisional’ gets you? It gets you shit, that’s what, and everybody knows it. How badly have Austria and Switzerland fucked you over?”

The silence around the table was telling.

“You see?” Prussia said, spreading his hands wide. “You should have stood up for yourselves. C’mon, Sofie, I _know_ you know how politics works.”

“That doesn’t mean we could just go throwing our weight around,” she said.

“The _hell_ you couldn’t’ve,” Prussia retorted. “All right, what’s the biggest concern?”

“We’re not in any position to fix it,” Armas warned him.

“Try me.”

When they’d explained the situation with all their information being hosted on Austrian and Swiss government servers, Prussia pulled out his phone and opened a website, which was blank but for a green dragon crest with _‘Suum Cuique’_ written under it.

“Say _‘hallo’,_ Don,” he said loudly, and a voice issued from the phone.

_‘Good afternoon.’_

“You ready to help out?” Prussia asked as the rest of the government sat around in confusion.

 _‘You still owe me,’_ the voice told him sharply. _‘For_ years _of work.’_

“Yeah, well, I’m back in Berlin now. I can get you a whole server farm, if you want. I’ve got the money; or I can get the money. Anyway, you want continuous, gainful employment?”

“You can’t just _hire_ people!” Sofie exclaimed. “Gilbert, who _is_ this?”

“Don,” Gilbert told his phone. “Meet the German Provisional Government. German Provisional Government, meet Donner von Maskinsjälen, who may or may not still be the Republican Monarchy of Ladonia.”

“I’ve never heard of Ladonia?” Fadri said uncertainly.

“ _I’ve_ never heard of Ladonia,” Armas said, much more firmly.

 _‘It was one square kilometer in the Kullaberg Nature Reserve in Sweden,’_ Ladonia said. _‘But that was more of a formality. Ladonia’s_ real _territory was always online.’_

_“Gilbert-”_

“Calm down, Sofie,” Prussia told his princess. “How many reams of paper, printers, and minions can you come up with in, say, the next half-hour?”

“What?”

“I don’t need an exact number,” he told her. “Just an estimate.”

_“Why-”_

“We’ve got the Provisional offices and the party office in Stuttgart,” Armas, who was much more willing to just _go_ with Nations until the point was reached, told him. “And the party office here in Berlin. If anybody’s in at Bonn, then there too.”

“Call Bonn, get people in there if they’re not already,” Gilbert ordered. “Call the other offices, too- tell them to go out and buy as much printer paper and ink as they can without looking suspicious, and get every printer hooked to a computer with an Internet connection warmed up. Have them open up this page-”

He pulled out a scrap of paper with a URL written on it, and slid it across the table to Armas.

“-and leave it up. And tell them not to panic when the printer starts going by itself, just make sure they keep up with the load and can file on the fly. This all needs to be ready in- Don, how long is it going to take you to get into Austria and Switzerland’s servers?”

 _‘Depends how long it takes for someone to open the Internet on a computer with access,’_ he said. _‘I can get into the ones that have your things right now, though.’_

“Great,” he turned to the rest of the government. “Madames Administrators, Masters Liaisons- prepare to have hard copies of all the information you could ever need to run Germany, Austria, and Switzerland.”

“We’re _not_ resorting to digital terrorism!” Elke told Prussia hotly. “We-”

“It’s not digital terrorism,” Prussia said. “It’s taking what rightfully belongs to you. Don- he _is_ the Internet, practically. Sure, he _started_ as Ladonia, but how many people think of the Internet as its own separate place, as something apart from any other country? Don can be in and out of any computer connected to the Internet in seconds, and trawl the whole structure, every page and every site and every account, for information, and bring it back. He’s not a computer program- _he’s_ better than that, because he’s a _person,_ who can make choices and distinctions no computer ever could.”

He leaned back in his seat and stared them all down.

“ _You_ are not the German Provisional Government,” he told them. “ _You_ are the government of the United Republic of the German Lands, whose borders encompass _all_ of Germany, Austria, and Switzerland. Everything they have, you have an equal right to- but if you aren’t _careful_ about what you do, the whole damn thing is going to collapse. So you can either step up and take what I have to give you; or you can keep fumbling along under Austria and Switzerland’s thumb and lose everything you could have had.”

The hotel room was silent for a long while.

“What _do_ you have to give?” Sofie asked.

Prussia tapped the phone.

“The best computer security and networking you’ll ever get, and a foundation for what could be the most extensive and advanced intelligence-gathering system in history, if you’ll hire him-”

He put a hand to his chest.

“Nine hundred years or so of experience in politics, government, and war; plus my personal fortune as the basis for the treasury, if you’ll hire _me-_ ”

One finger was raised to point out the window of the room, beyond the Olympic Stadium, where Cassiel Navin’s new tower was almost finished with construction.

“-and, if all goes well, the only contractor you’ll ever need.”

There wasn’t really one of them with the authority to speak for the others; but all four of them knew what they needed.

“I’ll start calling,” Armas said.

* * *

Gilbert had planned his and Dietrich’s return to be more of a surprise to the general public; but he couldn’t really be upset when his phone buzzed, alerting him about an update in the social group for German government employees who’d missed work the day of the Fire he kept tabs on.

The update was a picture of Heinrich, one hand on Dietrich’s arm, as Germanenlanden accepted a cornflower bouquet from Zell.

It was just _dripping_ with potential; and played perfectly into his plans. Gilbert saved it to his phone, and fired off a message to the person who’d taken it, asking for permission to use it in a press release as he left the hotel and started walking for what people had taken to calling _Altinnenstadt,_ the part of downtown Berlin that hadn’t burned down.

He got permission to use the photo as he was leaving the Hugo Boss store, garment bag slung over his shoulder. On the bus, he sent the photo to Armas with the name of the photographer, and told him to exploit it for all it was worth.

_I’m thinking of the picture with Heinrich when Liesl and Sebastian showed up to the press conference, exploit the thematic similarity._

Then he opened the group the picture had come from.

 _Prep your résumés and brush up on your office skills,_ Prussia posted. _Rapid expansion in the near future, and best pick of the new jobs goes to people with experience._

“Nice flowers,” he commented when he walked into the house and saw the cornflowers in a vase on the entrance hall table. Someone, he was surprised- and somewhat grateful- to see, had gotten dropcloths over everything to keep the worst of the dust off, taken the pictures and hanging off the walls and tucked them away, and boxed up the smaller valuables. Dietrich had opened the curtains in the living room and thrown one of the dropcloths off the couch. He could see the edge of a photo album Dietrich had been looking at, and then hurriedly tried to hide under it when Prussia had walked in, just peeking out from the white.

“Tux,” Gilbert said, thrusting the garment bag he was carrying at Dietrich. “Dinner is at seven, we leave at six-thirty, that’s in forty-five minutes, so when I get back you’d better be dressed and ready to go. You get to be diplomatic, so psych yourself up.”

Dietrich took the bag and stared at Gilbert.

“Where-”

Prussia kept going right on past him and climbed the stairs to the second floor, then opened the door to the attic. Nothing had been touched up here- whoever had gone through the first and second floors had respected the private nature of the personal items in storage here. He had to open a few trunks before he found his Bundeswehr dress uniform. The gold piping denoting the rank of General was, thankfully, very appropriate, and the medals box was tucked into the side, just like it should have been- but he had some work to do before he could be ready for the Gala.

He pulled out the full dress uniform- gray jacket, white shirt, black shoes, tie, and pants- and took it all downstairs, hunting up the sewing kit, shoe shine, iron, and ironing board as he made his way back to the living room. Prussia sat cross-legged on the floor and carefully took the seam-splitter to the patch on the right shoulder that denoted it as a Nation’s uniform, for show and ceremony, and not a part of the official command structure. He shined his shoes next, which took up most of his time. Thankfully, the uniform was clean and only creased where it had been folded so long, so he did a cursory ironing to look fresh-pressed.

When Dietrich showed up, a little bit earlier than Gilbert had ordered him too, he stopped a couple of stairs from the floor and looked puzzled at the Feldgrau the other Nation was wearing.

Prussia tucked his hands behind him in parade rest stance and felt the welcoming weight of the medals he’d pinned on, a selection from his days as a Kingdom, pre-World War One German Empire, and the Federal Republic. He’d pulled his Iron Cross out, tucking the chain under the jacket lapels so the Cross hung at the join of the collar.

“You’ll be seeing it often,” he told Germanenlanden. “Get used to it.”

* * *

Party etiquette dictated that the hosts came in last, after everyone else had already arrived.

Armas had kept a lid on the Provisional Government’s surprise guest, and hadn’t called anyone to spread the news, which what would have usually happened with something so big. The only people at the party who knew knew courtesy of Heinrich and Zell, who had called their remaining father to give him advance warning.

Feliciano had spent the hours leading up to the Gala begging Lovino to go on his own- but their orders were firm. They were _both_ to go, and as Feliciano was the favorite for international affairs where the government usually kept Lovino for national affairs, there was absolutely no way he was going to be able to avoid showing up.

Lovino, discreetly, was gripping his brother’s lower arm as they awaited the announcement of their hosts.

“We’re going to have to say at least a hello,” Lovino told him quietly, eyeing the non-government guests. Sofie von Preuβen had put together the Olympics Gala for the other government officials in attendance for the Olympics, their Nations, some powerful non-government figures also in town, and select members of the press. It was obviously a show of power, and really the only one the Provisional Government had ever done.

It was the perfect place to spring a surprise like the one they knew he had waiting in the wings on all the other, unsuspecting, guests.

Feliciano shook his head mutely.

“Manage _one_ sentence of small talk, and I’ll do the rest,” Lovino promised. “You can run away, go lose yourself with Feliks or something. One time, Feli- you can do that.”

The woman Sofie had hired as the announcer slipped into the room again and opened her mouth. Feliciano clutched at his brother.

“Fadri Ruegg, German Provisional Liaison,” she announced as the man entered. Austria drifted over to him, apparently having a point of business to conduct.

“Armas Väinämöinen, Liaison from the German Provisional Government to Exogenous Entities.”

That title was a mouthful, and should have been changed as soon as it had been come up with. Sweden and Finland hustled him away immediately to talk, and probably congratulate him in person on Germany’s win, since he’d helped get the team recognized in the first place.

“Elke Bastian, German Legislative Administrator.”

She had no one approach her, but hung around the doorway. Lovino could hear Feliciano’s breath stutter.

“Sofie Sieghild Friederike Käthe Hapsburg-Hohenzollern Prinzessen von Preußen, German Executive Administrator.”

The announcer stepped aside and Sofie’s husband Luther stepped up to escort her further into the room; but Sofie just smiled at him and stood her ground, Elke coming up to stand next to her.

“If I may have everyone’s attention!” she called out to the room. Conversation took a few moments to cease as the crowd turned towards her. “I would like to present, for the very first time-”

Lovino steeled himself.

“The Esteemed United Republic of the German Lands, Dietrich Ehren; and General Gilbert Beilschmidt of the Landenswehr, the Kingdom of Prussia!”

* * *

France was fanning himself furiously with a cocktail napkin, staring with a hint of mania at the new arrivals.

“They made him their _General,_ ” he said. “Their _\- Prussia!_ A _general!_ They can’t _do_ that, can-”

“What, like a Nation can’t run their own country?” Cuba asked archly. “It doesn’t matter if they ‘ _can’t’_ \- they _did._ ”

Like with any large gathering that involved Nations and humans, the room had gravitated into a gentle split- there was the human side, and there was the Nation side. After a year or so of fumbling, the Nations had sorted out for themselves that Cuba was still Cuba, even if he had extra titles, and was therefore still a part of their circle. He spent diplomatic gatherings moving, now, switching from side to side as the need took him.

“There’s no such _thing_ as the Landenswehr!” Switzerland hissed.

“Politics,” India said simply, unimpressed, and traded quick looks with China and Iran as Prussia started to steer Germanenlanden in their direction. Iran stepped forward to be the first, as the eldest of the Nations, to meet him.

“The Italies don’t look surprised,” everyone heard Israel comment to America, and when people tried and failed to be covert about their looks, it proved true. Veneziano was rigid, fixated on Germanenlanden, Romano leaning into him slightly and watching Gilbert and Dietrich approach, expressionless.

Prussia turned and walked swiftly away as soon as he’d gotten Germanenlanden into speaking range with Iran, avoiding the conversations he’d have to have, sometime, in favor of heading for his son on the other side of the room.

“It’s very good to meet you, Dietrich,” she told him in German, extending her hand. “I am Forouzandeh Qazai, Iran. We had started to worry that you’d both died.”

“Prussia just kept us traveling,” Germanenlanden replied in Arabic. “I’m sorry my Farsi isn’t good enough to hold a conversation in- I wasn’t in Tehran very long.”

“Where did you learn Arabic?” Iran asked. There was a general noise of astonishment from the other Nations who had gathered around, most of them Europeans, as they collectively tried to pick out the few Arabic words they knew- a bit of a futile exercise, with both of the people actually holding the conversation were fluent enough to keep the pace up and were unconsciously cutting corners with the language, as happens when people speak.

“I-” Dietrich continued, uncomfortable with the amount of attention being paid to him. “Around? Places? I think we were a week or so longer in Mecca than Addis Ababa, but that’s not much more time-”

“You’ve been to Mecca?” Saudi Arabia butted in.

“For two months,” he told her. “It was-”

“Where else have you been?” China demanded.

“I… I can recognize Mandarin, but I can’t speak it,” Dietrich told him in Cantonese. “Most of my time was in Hong Kong-”

“Have you been to India?” India interrupted in Hindi.

“A month and a half each in Delhi and Mumbai and a month in Kolkata,” Dietrich informed him, switching languages again. People were pressing around him, and he’d thought he’d be prepared because he was used to large groups of people and interacting with strangers, but apparently that wasn’t at all the same as having a group of strangers he was supposed to be on good terms with mobbing him. “And after that I was in Thailand and Malaysia and Indonesia-”

France swanned into the conversation, gesturing airily at the other Nations gathered around Dietrich, saying something that made China scowl severely and mutter: _“Smug imperious bastard.”_

He didn’t think France knew Cantonese, but the tone hadn’t been disguised at all. France smiled back, chillily, and made a remark Germanenlanden could _tell_ was biting before pulling him away to the knot of European Nations, babbling happily as he went.

Dietrich dug his feet in just before he’d been properly maneuvered into the circle. He _knew_ the looks on the people they were approaching, they were the same ones Prussia had, whenever he saw Dietrich doing something his brother had done- reading anything he could get his hands on, picking up languages at lightning speed, reading all the manuals for technology and fiddling with it until he knew exactly how to work it, buying cakes and pastries when he had cravings and some money on him, and other things he hadn’t worked out yet.

These people, they were expecting _Germany._ Maybe a little different, maybe a little off, toned down or with a few new quirks; but they looked at him and they expected Ludwig Beilschmidt.

It was like they hadn’t even _tried_ to listen to what he’d heard Prussia tell them, four years ago.

“I don’t know French,” he said curtly.

France’s expression turned aghast.

“You don’t know _French?_ ” he exclaimed in English, sounding scandalized. “Whyever _not?_ ”  

“Why would I need to know French?” Dietrich said, still talking to him in German. Prussia had taught him it was polite to speak in the language of the other Nation, if you knew it; and if you didn’t to use a third language you both knew- but _polite_ was not something he ever intended to be with people who didn’t see _him._ “I wasn’t anywhere where anybody spoke French casually. I don’t really need it for diplomacy. There’s no _point_ in me learning French _._ But I might learn how to say hello, and ask if you’ve been doing well, because it would be an easy but ultimately empty political gesture. Barely anyone really important, comparatively with the languages I _am_ fluent in, speaks French. It’s just- completely irrelevant.”

France stared at him, too shocked to say anything.

Behind him, Dietrich heard China snickering. India tried and failed to suppress an amused snort.

“Well-” England said, just as thrown as the rest of the European Nations upon his opinion of the overall usefulness of French. “ _Surely_ you’re fluent in English-”

“Of _course_ I’m fluent in English,” he said, not hiding his attitude _or_ the pronounced accent he knew he had. “It’s basically impossible _not_ to be, if you’re going to be doing work globally.”

“Where the _fuck_ did you learn English?” America demanded after a moment of trying to parse his accent.

“Hong Kong and Johannesburg,” Dietrich informed him.

“But- you were in _New York!_ ”

“I was only in New York as long as it took to leave,” Dietrich said. “So maybe ten minutes, tops, and the only language I heard there was _mine._ First time I heard anything else was the first time I saw outside, and _that_ was Havana.”

“You went to _Cuba_ instead of staying in _New York?_ ”

“Why would I want to stay in New York?” he pointed out. “ _You_ were all there, and about three seconds out of having your worldviews rewritten. It would have been a horrible introduction, not that _this_ one is going any good.”

 “You could have come _back,_ ” America protested. “Or gone to DC, or San Francisco-”

“ _One,_ ” Dietrich interrupted him. “Prussia’s been calling the shots the last four years, take it up with him; _two,_ it’s not a _law_ or something that people _have_ to learn English in your country. Other places _do_ speak it- you _realize_ this, right?”

“But you didn’t even go _England,_ or something! Canada!”

“The world is bigger than North America and Europe. By quite a lot, actually, I think you’d be surprised.”

“ _Australia,_ even!”

“Surprise!” Dietrich said mockingly. “This is what happens when export all your stuff and stick your nose in everybody else’s damn business; people know your things without ever setting foot in western Anglophone country. And given that you are completely living up to everything I’ve heard about American self-centeredness, there’s probably a reason that all my favorite memories are ones _completely_ devoid of English.”

He and America stared each other down for a long moment.

“I liked Germany a lot better than you,” America said finally.

“Well, _tough shit_ ,” Germanenlanden told him, and addressed the European group generally. “Me and people who expect me to be someone I _know_ you all know I’m not don’t do very well together. So- we’ll have to see each other for diplomatic reasons and I for one am definitely not looking forward to it after this; goodbye, I’m done here.”

He turned sharply around and swiftly looked around for the nearest person that would either annoy everyone even more, or probably be completely out of character for Germany to talk to, preferably both if he could-

“Israel,” he said, switching to Hebrew as he mentally counted out his breathing to calm down. “I was in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem earlier this year- how are the excavations going? They were being held up last I heard, because of worries about undermining structural integrity?”

* * *

_'Did you know they were going to be here?’_ Serafina DiAngeli asked, signing her question for Cass as she talked.

“Nope,” he answered her, half paying attention. There were blueprints to be looked at back at the hotel, and preliminary designs, and he had to sign something-or-other, he didn’t know what, but Ásdís did, she knew _everything_ about his company. Probably it was the thing about the automotive engineers again.

The automobiles were the highlight, the crowning achievement, the cash cow, however else you could say it, of Navin Technologies. They’d started small, in Wales, with a microwave that heated things instantly, perfectly. The buttons had been really just for show- it was the magic that did the work there, that pulled _exactly_ the temperature and amount of cooking the user wanted something at straight from their heads. After the microwave had made a splash came the oven and the toaster, with the same idea; and then the instant-cooler and forever-fresh refrigerator and the washer-dryer machine set that never let colors bleed or got clothes staticky or didn’t completely remove a stain or wash out all the detergent. Everything, absolutely _everything,_ was green-certified, and people had written articles and newsletters and websites and a few whole magazine issues of tearing their hair out trying to figure out how it all _worked._

As soon as they’d had the money new factories had been bought, all in technically-Germany-maybe, because what little Cass had in the way of national pride or allegiance or feeling he completely made up with in faith in mythos, and being able to put _‘Made in Germany’_ on all the new products got people talking about _‘German engineering’_ , and that was the sort of reputation they could use.

After the media coverage took off, and about a month after his first big interview, Cass had told Ásdís to tip off the press, gone to a used car dealership in Stuttgart, and bought the oldest still-running Mercedes-Benz with the least efficient motor they had. He’d gotten an emissions test right there on the lot for the reporters, then opened the hood, showed them the piece of tech he’d brought with him, switched it out with one of the motor parts, and then turned the car back on again.

It had tested zero emissions, and the reporters went away stunned and kind of suspicious. Mercedes-Benz had called a few days later, and Cass had happily come over to their headquarters with Ásdís and Serafina and Payton and let them run tests on the car and prove to their satisfaction the zero emissions results and the astronomically large gas mileage; and then poke at the tech and try very, very hard not to look eager or frustrated. He’d let Ásdís do her job then, and she convinced Mercedes-Benz that getting the technology was worth getting it on a non-exclusive contract, and then conference called Audi, Volkswagen, and BMW.

A month later, all four companies announced that the motors of all future cars would be a joint effort between them and Navin Technologies. Navin Technologies announced that anyone who already owned an Audi, Mercedes-Benz, Volkswagen, and BMW could go to their dealership and get the part switched for a reasonable fee.

The rest of the car companies screamed bloody murder and some of the environmentalists got angry about the favoritism, but Ásdís got herself a spot on some televisions spot somewhere or made an internet video or whatever she did as the person in charge of public relations and actually running things with Serafina, and talked about the balancing act required with environmentalism and business.

Cass just deleted the furious e-mails from America and Austria, unread, and hired Tomoko Honda to get them into medical technology. At some point, somebody told him Navin Technologies had the fairest hiring practices and payment scale of all the major companies they’d ever heard of, and Cass forgot to compliment Ásdís about it, or whatever it was you were supposed to do in that situation.

Ásdís took up with Tomoko and they contracted with Yamaha and Suzuki for cooperation on motorcycle engines, and _only_ motorcycle engines. Cass blocked America’s e-mail address after too many messages with _‘Harley Davidson’_ and _‘General Motors’_ in the subject lines.

Or maybe the things he was supposed to sign were about the computers? They hadn’t gotten very far with the computers yet, but that was only because Øystein kept yelling at him whenever he started talking about how _easy_ a truly conscious computer program or robot would be if you had magic. Cass kept telling him that they needed _something_ at least a little sentient if they were going to have his spaceships someday, but apparently Øystein hated space, or something. Maybe Ásdís had talked to their lawyers and gotten insurance or liability or whatever.

Prussia had to step completely into his line of sight before Cass noticed him.

“Oh, hey _Vater,_ ” he said. “How’d you get them to make you a General, anyway?”

 _‘I’m the only one with experience,’_ Cass watched Serafina sign for him. _‘I wanted to talk to you about a job.’_

“You want me to build stuff?” Cass asked, slightly amazed. “You never cared before. This is politics, isn’t it, you’re reliving your glory days beating Austria around for German domination. What do you need?”

 _‘I’m not **reliving** my glory days, I’m making **new** ones,’_ he said, and then Serafina turned to Prussia and said something that presumably excused the two of them for a moment while telling Cass: _‘Let me talk to you a minute. Does your father know German Sign Language?’_

“Don’t think so,” Cass told her, and she turned her attention to him, signing her words without saying them to ensure privacy.

 _‘This is the chance you’ve been waiting for,’_ she told him. _‘The chance **we’ve** been waiting for. This is a government come to ask for your work- you don’t need their money any more than you need the humans’ money, I can give you everything you’ll ever need. Make their payment for your work their space program.’_

It was very true, Navin Technologies didn’t need the money- the only thing they used their profits for were to pay themselves and their workers, and then travel expenses and sometimes Ásdís had a crisis of conscious or whatever and threw some at marketing and supply; but the Picts’ money, however they were getting it, covered their research and development and their production and marketing and supply. Taking people’s money was really just a reason to excuse the fact that they had capital in the first place. Probably Ásdís hid the rest of it in a vault or a cave or in her house or buried it so no one would find it; because people finding it would be awkward and he _knew_ that she hadn’t picked a charity to dispose of it in because otherwise someone would have mentioned it in an interview or he’d have e-mails about it.

Actually-

He gently pushed Serafina aside.

“I’ll build you things as long as it isn’t weapons,” he told his father, consciously lowering his voice and hoping Prussia and Serafina could still actually _hear_ it, since he had no way of knowing. “If you let me run your space program and give you the money we’re not using, because I _know_ the Provisional Government is broke and I _know_ you’re not going to let Austria or Switzerland’s government take over from them.”

Prussia stared at him.

 _‘You don’t pay **us,** ’ _Serafina signed for him once he started talking. Cass tried to not laugh at the disbelieving expression on his father’s face. _‘We pay **you.** That’s how this **works.** ’_

“It’s not me paying you, it’s donating to a charitable cause,” Cass told him. “Every major company should have one; its good PR. Getting to space will be payment enough.”

* * *

Armas had been sadly unsurprised to look up from his talk with his parents to see that Austria and Switzerland had cornered Elke, Fadri, Sofie, and Sofie’s husband, even though Luther von Hapsburg-Hohenzollern had absolutely nothing to do with the decisions of the German Provisional Government. Prussia and Dietrich weren’t included, probably because Prussia was catching up with his son and Dietrich was talking to- _Israel,_ and they both looked like they were _enjoying_ themselves, that would take getting used to.

There was also the consideration that if they cornered Prussia, there was a definite danger of him making a scene- and judging by the body language, it looked like everyone was trying hard _not_ to make it one.

“I think I have to go deal with that,” he muttered to his father, and wished heartily that Pavel or Rémy or Zell was doing this, instead. This sort of thing was basically what made up their job; and he could really use Pavel’s knack for keeping everyone calm, or Rémy’s ability to deflect conversation from inflaming topics, or Zell’s complete and unconscious faith that, no matter _how_ angry or furious a Nation was, none of them would ever _actually_ hurt her.

That faith was entirely mysterious to Armas, who placed significantly less trust in Nations’ self-control generally, and in Switzerland’s specifically. The jury was still out on Austria, but the answer to the question of how far Nations would go to keep themselves alive was _‘pretty damn far’_. All in all, Armas was glad to have Prussia in their corner- but that didn’t mean he wanted to add their new General to the current mix and watch everything explode.

Finland glanced over at where Armas was going and gave his son’s arm a little squeeze, conveying both _‘call me if you need me’_ and _‘I respect the politics that mean you need to do this yourself, even if I don’t like it’_ , and drifted into the small conversational group his husband was standing around in.

Armas took a deep breath and went to have a hopefully-mild confrontation with two upset Nations.

“-have no _authority,_ ” was what he caught of what Austria was spitting, mostly at Sofie, who was pressed into her husband for support. Elke and Fadri weren’t able to look him in the eye, disquieted by his rage and the way he-

Oh, he was _not_ doing that. He was _deliberately_ playing up his Nationhood, leaning on the feeling that told humans _Nation,_ _bigger than you, powerful_ , the feeling that he’d grown somewhat used to from his parents.

“We have all the authority we need,” Armas said from behind the Nations. Austria turned on him; Switzerland just glowered more. Armas ignored the pressure now directed at him and tried to focus inside, holding onto his sense of his parents for support. “You _knew_ the German Provisional Government was just a placeholder until the United Republic of the German Lands returned. He’s back now, with General Beilschmidt-”

“He’s no _General!_ ”

“He is now,” Armas told him. “You can dispute that if you like, but I don’t think it’s going to stick.”

“He has nothing to be a General of,” Switzerland said. “There is no such _thing_ as the Landenswehr.”

“Really?” Armas asked, summoning a hint of archness as defense. “When Germany’s military has been half-grafted into the Austrian and Swiss chain of command? See, the thing is-”

It took a lot of deliberate not-thinking about what could go wrong to step forward.

“I _know_ what you told your governments after Germany fell. You told them Ludwig Beilschmidt was dead; but you _didn’t_ tell them that Dietrich Ehren was alive. You didn’t tell them that _Gilbert_ Beilschmidt was still alive. I don’t know exactly what your governments have been thinking these last four years, but it seems a lot like they thought they could cut Germany in half and, eventually, once everyone had gotten used to them administering it, claim it as part of their country with little fuss.”

“I don’t want _any_ of Germany,” Switzerland told him stiffly.

“I could _almost_ believe that,” Armas replied. “But don’t you see what you’ve done? You tried to convince everyone that Germany was gone, and one day, it would be yours. You consolidated and you offered help and tangled yourselves up in Germany’s government in an effort to keep them weak, in preparation for taking it for yourselves- because if no one but Nations know that out there somewhere was the Nation who’d replace you, you could trick everyone into coming to you. But all you did-”

He steadied himself in preparation for what he was going to say. No government, no human, would accept it as an official declaration of war, but Nations?

This would be good enough for Nations.

“You should probably go explain yourselves to your heads of state,” he told Austria and Switzerland. “Because all you did was make it _that much easier_ to build the United Republic of the German Lands on top of your bones; and you know what the best part is?”

He thought of his memories of the Nations who’d come to rescue them in the House, and tried to put a little of that steel, that grim determination, into his expression.

“The _best_ part is that, because of what you’ve done, everyone will think that _Vereinigtenrepublik Germanenlanden_ is the natural outgrowth of the systems _you’ve_ set up, of Austria and Switzerland working together to keep Germany dependent on their strength- in all the things you’ve done to try and kill Dietrich Ehren, what you _did_ was tie the German Lands so tight to each other that it’s easier now to push them closer together than pull them apart again.”

Armas watched Austria’s expression go from merely furious to furious with hard-headed denial, and Switzerland’s cold displeasure gain undertones of horror, and told them simply-

“Go.”

They went.

* * *

Dietrich had been having a very nice talk about history with Israel when a man politely insinuated himself into their space.

“Rahel,” he said, nodding to Israel before turning to Dietrich. He knew German, whoever he was. “Germanenlanden, I’d like to speak with you.”

He tilted his head towards the closest balcony doorway. Dietrich didn’t really know why he’d want the talk to be that obviously private, but it wasn’t going to do any harm to go along. He excused himself to Israel, and the two of them walked off.

“You’re a rude little shit,” the man said thoughtfully as they approached the doors. “And I’m pretty sure that means I have to like you on principle.”

“Is that how you evaluate everyone?” Dietrich asked, opening the balcony door. He was waiting for a reply, and so didn’t see the other person until he was well out onto the balcony.

“ _Hallo, Germanenlanden._ ”

He had never needed anyone to tell him who Germany’s children were, no names or pictures or descriptions- he just _knew._ There was a certain way they felt to his sense of his people, just a little more in-tune with and aware of him.

Feliciano Vargas was another Nation, but apparently, he didn’t need any of that for _him_ either. The immediate, half-there feeling of shaky, happy warmth was enough; and he _knew_ how it would feel to hold his face in his hands, to hug him, how he sounded when he laughed and looked when he smiled-

Prussia had been right to say that Ludwig Beilschmidt was gone, but he’d left a few things behind.

The sudden discovery of things not _his_ in his head were all the more terrifying for being unpredictable. He’d only had two, before- the second had been in Moscow, seven months earlier, when smoke from a house fire near their apartment presented him with the image of different buildings, a different city, shelled and cold and dusty, sooty, as people shot at each other from behind broken walls.

It would have been one thing if it had been a flashback, if there had been some emotion or trauma attached to it, but-

The first time had been a horrible, disorientingly complicated event. In Rio di Janeiro, when Prussia had taken him to a fancy restaurant to teach him about state dinners, where he’d remembered over the taste of cream sauce, in a different restaurant a century earlier, _Ludwig_ remembering what Heinrich Adler had once known, a small child in a field of flowers, and immediately dismissing as a flight of fancy.

So Dietrich had _known,_ that there were a few memories that would stick around and be unwelcome intruders, because it had happened to others; but he did _not_ need this, not these not-quite-memories, not these things about _Feliciano Vargas,_ about _Veneziano,_ about _Italy._

“We thought it would be better to meet you away from everyone else,” Romano said casually, picking up from his brother; and Dietrich realized he’d been staring, frozen, at Feliciano. “They’d just watch and not even pretend they weren’t. I don’t think any of us could deal with that.”

Dietrich forced himself to _focus_ and actually looked at the two of them, trying to get his brain into gear- he had to say something, he had to _leave._

“I-”

Romano was looking at him, arms crossed, full of implacable, inscrutable regard. He was just… waiting, neutrally, unguarded. Veneziano was seated on the balcony bench, looking up at him, slumped slightly and too small, somehow, small and sad and hurting but not _expecting,_ not like the others.

Of everyone, of all the people it could have been, it was Feliciano and Lovino Vargas who looked at him and fully expected to find someone who _wasn’t_ Ludwig Beilschmidt.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted to Feliciano; and he hadn’t been sure what he was going to say and didn’t think this was it but it had just come _out._ “I- not for not being Germany. That you lost your husband.”

Feliciano smiled at him, and it was little, weak, watery thing.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

“You don’t-” Dietrich started to say, and stopped himself, thinking it might be hurtful and insensitive, but maybe it wouldn’t be. “The others. And Gilbert. They don’t- You were his _husband,_ how come _you’re_ the one who doesn’t see him when you look at me?”

Feliciano’s hand immediately went to clutch something under his shirt, unconsciously, the white fabric bunching up under his grip, bowtie going askance. Romano stepped into the silence, making a little, jerky shrug.

“Life is shit, the universe is shit, and they both just _love_ to fuck with us,” he said, a little bitterly. “I’m used to it. It’s _expected._ ”

“Heinrich- Holy Rome was my first love,” Feliciano began. “I don’t know how much that means, anymore, but- he was. And never, in the century-and-a-half I knew Ludwig for, did I _ever_ think he was like Heinrich. There were a few similarities, but _everyone_ has something in common with someone else. I never would have guessed-”

He seemed to realize what his hand was doing, and slowly loosened it.

“I know better,” Feliciano told Dietrich. “Than to think I’ll ever get him back.”

It _hurt,_ the way the single-image not-quite-memory he had of this man happy, smiling, contrasted with the quietly despairing grief that weighed on him now, and Dietrich found he couldn’t look at it.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, and this time it was for knowing things he shouldn’t- for having Feliciano’s smile and Feliciano’s laugh and Feliciano’s embrace, those things that belonged to Ludwig and Ludwig’s husband and not Germanenlanden and this sad downtrodden man- and left.

* * *

Cassiel had just walked away with woman who’d accompanied him after making his announcement, leaving Prussia feeling rather adrift; though mostly wondering when his son had started thinking of governments as _charitable causes._

“General Beilschmidt,” a familiar voice said, full of amusement; and Prussia smiled, expression twisting sardonically. “Congratulations on your new job.”

“President Echemendia,” he greeted Cuba. “Thank you for prepping people to the idea it could happen.”

“I’m not really sure what your game plan with the kid was,” Cuba told him, taking up station next to him. “But he managed to ingratiate himself with China, India, Iran, and Israel and then alienate at _least_ America and France, all in the space of about three minutes. He’s a sassy bastard who doesn’t think twice about telling people what he thinks about them, _that’s_ for sure. I’d say he could stand to be knocked down a few pegs; but then the people he mouthed off to could, too.”

“He doesn’t need any knocking down,” Prussia said. “You’re all just used to Ludwig, who never really got back up again.”

Cuba looked thoughtful, like he was considering this.

“Well, he’s certainly not your brother,” he said eventually. “He said the first place you took him was Havana.”

“Where better to start teaching a new Nation about _being_ a Nation than the one place in the world one took matters into his own hands?” Gilbert asked him.

Cuba lowered his voice.

“Is that what you’re aiming for here, Prussia?” he asked. “Germanenlanden in charge?”

Gilbert shook his head.

“No,” he replied, just as quiet. “He wouldn’t be ready for that. But Ludwig got pushed around by his government during the war- and some of that’s my fault, I never taught him better even though _I_ knew better- and I won’t let that happen to Dietrich. He’s going to know _he_ has power, too.”

He paused a minute before hesitantly continuing.

“If I can manage it, _his_ government-”

“General Beilschmidt; President Echemendia!” someone said, and Prussia cut himself off as they both looked over, sharply, at the woman who’d interrupted them. She was wearing a press pass with her evening gown.

“I’m Isabel Fromm,” she said, holding out her hand to shake.

Prussia took it.

“Yes, I know you,” he told her. “From _Die Welt._ ”

Fromm smiled, surprised to be recognized, and continued with: “And this is Allen Coburn, from CNN. We’d like to ask you some questions.”

“Me or him?” Prussia asked, tilting his head at Cuba.

“Both?” Coburn said.

Prussia and Cuba looked at each other, quickly, silently asking. Cuba nodded after a moment.

“Just business,” he told the reporters. Fromm whipped out a handheld recorder from her clutch and Coburn took out a paper pad and pencil from inside his suit jacket.

“How long has _Vereinigtenrepublik Germanenlanden_ been around?” Fromm asked, clicking the recorder on.

“End of September 2049,” Prussia answered promptly. “The twenty-third, I believe.”

Coburn gaped a little in surprise, but Fromm pressed another question.

“Why is he only coming forward now?”

“Nations don’t just appear with all the experience and knowledge they need to know everything about government, any more than humans are born knowing how to function as adults,” Prussia told her. “We _do_ learn about government fast, but he needed some time to do that before we put him on the spot. I’ve been taking him around the world these last four years, teaching him the things he absolutely _had_ to know before he could take his position.”

“What _do_ Nations need to know before they start their jobs?”

“A little bit of everything,” Cuba told her, taking over. “Economics, basics of government, legislation, diplomacy, foreign policy, social concerns- most of us are old enough that we learned it as it happened. Trial under fire sort of situation.”

“Most of what I taught Germanenlanden was about diplomacy, foreign policy, and some social issues with a little economics,” Prussia added. “The rest of it- he’s picked up enough to get along with help, just like everyone else does.”

Coburn stepped up.

“Why make you General?” he asked Prussia.

“Experience.”

“How much?”

“More than any human general could ever have.”

He didn’t seem to want to pursue that any further, and turned to Cuba.

“Did you advise anyone on his appointment?”

“I hear the question you’re really asking there,” Cuba said. “Just like every other time, no, I don’t interfere with other people’s governments. They did this completely on their own. I was just as surprised as everyone else.”

“Who else knew about Germanenlanden?”

Cuba shrugged.

“Some of the Nations, at least,” he said. “I don’t know who.”

“Most of the EU,” Prussia provided. “And America and Canada. I don’t know what the governments were told, but their Nations knew.”

“What progress has been made towards formalizing the United Republic of the German Lands?”

Prussia smiled widely. _This_ was the answer he’d been waiting to give. He’d like to see what Roderich and Sebastian had to say to it.

“The Austrian, Swiss, and German Provisional governments have actually done a fantastic job getting everything put together, hosting the recollected information in the same systems, integrating the military, moving forward with the German Economic Area for the European Confederacy plan, working together to administer and care for the citizens of former Germany while they waited for the structure to come together- the foundation for the United Republic of the German Lands has grown strongly over the last four years, and I’m _very_ pleased with the progress that’s been made.”

They could make this a drag-down knock-out good old-fashioned war, and Austria and Switzerland could go down in flames with the condemnation of the world- or they could go quietly, with dignity and respect. Gilbert knew _exactly_ which one they’d prefer, because war had always been the only way _he_ was going to go; so he was going to do his damned best to make _‘quietly’_ the only way they could.

“One last question, because I have to ask,” Fromm said. “Prussia?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“There’s a lot that question could mean.”

“The Allied Forces dissolved Prussia at the end of World War Two. Why are you still alive?”

Cuba snorted.

“He’s too damn stubborn to do anything unless it’s his own terms,” he told Fromm and Coburn, giving them the reality the Nations had resigned themselves to long ago.

* * *

**_How would you verify the existence of a soul?_ **

**_Eglantine Walker Kirkland_ **

**_Parameters:_ **

  *          _Verification is practical in nature_
  *          _Person performing the verification is conventionally alive_
  *          _Innate magical ability on the part of the personal performing the verification is not necessary_
  *          _Cultural background of person performing the verification is German and Italian_
  *          _Religious background of person performing the verification is Catholic and Jewish_



****

**_Analysis of Unviable Methods:_ **

  1. **_Die._** _  
Impractical. Requires a still-living person to contact and report findings to the rest of humanity. Lack of contact after death is either a sign of the dead not being allowed to speak to the living, extreme difficulty of such communication, forgetfulness on the part of the deceased, and/or a lack of an afterlife. Any outcome except unequivocal success is inconclusive, rendering this method absolutely useless._
  2. **_Necromancy._** _  
Forbidden; reckless and unnecessary endangerment of self. Deuteronomy 18: 10-12; “There shall not be found among you any one that maketh his son or his daughter to pass through the fire, or that useth divination, or an observer of times, or an enchanter, or a witch. Or a charmer, or a consulter with familiar spirits, or a wizard, or a **necromancer**. For all that do these things are **an abomination unto the LORD** : and because of these abominations the LORD thy God doth drive them out from before thee.” Also, non-religious magical literary/oral/folklore tradition in most languages suggests that necromancy corrupts the user, opens the user to possession, and/or is disrespectful of the dead, who will take revenge. _
  3. **_Summoning a non-human entity to ask for an answer._** _  
Forbidden; reckless and unnecessary endangerment of self. See analysis for #2; “ **a consulter with familiar spirits** ”. Literary/oral/folklore tradition suggests that any person attempting such a summoning will end up dead and/or with a ruined life._
  4. **_Have faith that the soul exists._** _  
Only acceptable pathway for both religious backgrounds. However, the position is untestable._
  5. **_Unknown magical procedure.  
_** _Any viable procedures are unknown to the author. Further complication on part of person performing the verification, where existence innate magical abilities are unknown or unconfirmed. Further research required/high potential of being impossible and/or impractical._



**_Presented Viable Methods:_ ** _Descend to the Underworld/Journey to the Afterlife_

**_Analysis of Viable Methods:_ **

  *          _Comes with instructions in the form of literary/oral/folklore traditions._
  *          _Carries risk of death but does not necessitate death to achieve._
  *          _Innate magical ability is not required._
  *          _Cultural background absorbed earlier pagan religious stories of such journeys; and the most important ones are well-recorded._
  *          _Christian background contains examples of returning from the dead but require miracles or an act of God, and are therefore unsuitable._



**_Explanation of Viable Methods:_ **

_From the **Prose Edda, Gylfaginning, the Death of Baldr** , we have the journey of Hermódr to beg for the return to life of Baldr. Hermódr rode Sleipnir on the Hel-way “nine nights and through dales dark and deep” until he reached the river Gjöll, over which spans the golden Gjöll-bridge, guarded by the maiden Módgudr. Beyond Gjöll’s Bridge is the Hel-gate, which Hermódr jumped with Sleipnir. It is unclear if the Hel-gate can be opened, or opens only for the dead._

_Given that no indication is given of where to find the Hel-way or the river Gjöll, unless one wishes to spend a lot of time on searching, this should be used only as a secondary method._

_From the **Aeneid, Book Six** , we have Aeneas’s journey to the Underworld under the guidance of the Sibyl of Cumae. The Sibyl advises Aeneas that “the path to Hades is easy/black Dis’s door is open night and day/but to retrace your steps, and go out to the air above/that is work, that is the task”. Here, Hades is accessed by the plucking of a golden bough from an oak tree sacred to Persephone, which will allow access; as well as animal sacrifices of black heifers, bulls, and a lamb to Hecate, Pluto, and Persephone. The entry-point to the Underworld is a cave on the shores of Lake Avernus, approximately 23 kilometres east of Naples. From the cave mouth there is a path that leads through spectral horrors that cannot harm the traveler. Beyond the horrors is the muddy river Acheron, which creates a whirlpool where it joins with the river Cocytus, which surrounds the Underworld. The ferryman Charon then takes Aeneas and the Sibyl over Cocytus and through the marshes of Styx. Upon disembarkment, they must drug Cerberus- further details of the layout of the Underworld can be found in lines 535-678 of Book Six._

_The explicit nature of the instructions here, as well as the named and easily-accessible entry point to the Underworld, render a repeat of Aeneas’s journey the more viable method of determining the existence of a soul._


	24. 2052: August

“I don’t think we’re legally allowed to be here this early in the morning,” Heinrich muttered into the pre-dawn air, _just_ starting to gray and reveal the Neapolitan hills around them as the sun considered beginning to rise.

“So?” Cassiel asked, waving the sheets of paper he had clenched in his hand around as Payton signed everything out for him. “Couldn’t do it any other time, people would ask questions. Now-”

He uncrumpled his papers as best he could and squinted at them.

“I’ve already done the animal sacrifices so the next step-” 

**_“What,”_ ** Nia interrupted him. “You did _what?_ ”

“I thought it was going to be harder to find that many black animals, but it really wasn’t, though I don’t _actually_ know where Serafina acquired seven black cows and a lamb without anybody taking an interest-”

“Just a second, Cassiel,” Nia cut him. “We need to have a _talk_ with our sister about just _what_ she thinks she’s doing here.”

She grabbed Zell by the arm and dragged her some feet away, to the other side of the cave entrance, Heinrich following.

“Okay, Zell- _what the fuck,_ ” she said to her sister.

“I didn’t know there were going to be animal sacrifices,” Zell told her.

“Well, do you know why there _might_ have been animal sacrifices?” Heinrich asked patiently.

“You didn’t tell us why you wanted us to be here,” Nia said. “And honestly at this point I want to know just so I can point out _exactly_ why whatever it is, it was a bad idea.”

“I asked you here so I could say goodbye,” Zell told them.

“Well _that_ doesn’t sound ominous and worrying at _all,_ ” Heinrich said, and then dropped the biting tone. “Zell, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s _wrong-_ ”

“I don’t believe you,” Nia said.

“I’m going to go figure out what happened to _Vati._ ”

The three of them were silent for a moment before Nia said: “See, that sounds like a _horrible_ idea, Zell, because we know he _died,_ and if you’re going to find out where he ended up, then _you’re_ going to have to die- and I’m not letting that happen.”

“We know he didn’t _exactly **die,**_ ” her sister reminded her. “And _I’m_ not going to die.”

“I’m not convinced,” Heinrich said. “What’s Cass going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Zell admitted.

“Well I don’t trust him,” Nia announced. “I don’t trust his judgment, I don’t trust that he has any idea what he’s doing, and I don’t trust his magic, which is what I assume he’s going to be using on _you,_ since there are _animal sacrifices_ and _souls_ involved!”

“Someone has to,” Zell maintained. “Someone has to find out what happened to _Vati._ We all _know_ he shouldn’t have died like that- and I’m willing to bet that the others, the ones before Germany, _they_ weren’t supposed to die like that either. At worst there’s something horribly wrong and at best there’s something everyone has completely missed about how Nations work, and whatever it turns out to be, people deserve to know. _Onkel_ Gilbert and _Babbo._ Us. His family.”

“Do you have _any_ idea what you’re doing?” Heinrich asked, finally.

“No,” Zell said. “But I can’t let that stop me.”

“Well, _I’ll_ go then!” Nia exclaimed. “Zell, what are you _thinking-_ you don’t know where you’re going and you don’t know what you’re going to find there! What if someone tries to kill you, you can’t defend yourself! And you have Rémy and Louis! You can’t just go running off on them!”

“They can take care of themselves-”

“So _Vati_ is more important than your husband and son?”

“Yes!”

All three of them froze at that.

“ _Vati_ ’s more important than _all_ of us,” Zell continued, a little shaky. “He is- was, whatever- a Nation. Nations are more important to the world than any human. Even a really, really good leader, one that no one else could ever measure up to- people and countries can recover from that. But _no one_ can recover from losing a Nation. Whatever happened with _Vati_ and the others- it struck in a moment of weakness. Countries and Nations have a lot of those. Do you want the same thing to happen the next time someone’s stock market takes a fall, or there’s a rebellion?”

“That’s happened before and nothing’s come of it,” Heinrich pointed out, sounding uncomfortable.

“Yet,” Zell said. “But if we never know what it is, we’ll never know how to guard against it.”

“It’s important to find out what happened, fine,” Nia said. “But Zell, let _me_ go. Stay with your family.”

“You’re my family, too,” her sister said. “And the way losing _Vati_ has warped _our_ family, I think I’d be better serving Rémy and Louis by going and fixing this _thing_ that’s split us all into separate groups. I always- I always thought any children I had would grow up with _Vati_ and _Babbo_ and _Onkel_ Gilbert you and Heinrich, in Berlin and Venice, like _we_ did; but these days I’m lucky if I can get any two of us in the same room together without someone getting hurt!”

Nia bristled.

“I _won’t-_ ”

“That’s _exactly_ what I’m talking about, Nia,” Zell cut her off. “And I won’t live in this any longer. I won’t let my son grow up thinking this is how family works. I won’t let my husband lose the stability and happiness that he kept running away from Paris to Berlin, again and again, to have.”

“If you’re so determined to go then I’m coming too,” Nia said. “And don’t argue with me on this; _if_ you find out what happened to _Vati,_ and there’s a way to get him back, I’m taking it. Doesn’t matter what it is- I’ve got nothing to come back to.”

“You have _us,_ ” Heinrich said immediately, fear tinging the words. “Nia, even if you never speak to _Babbo_ or _Onkel_ Gilbert again in your entire life, you have me and Zell. _We_ want you to come back.”

“This family isn’t this family without a Germany,” Nia told him. “It can’t work without _Vati._ We’ve proved that. But it will work without me.”

“I don’t believe that,” Zell said. _“Nia-”_

“Will you both stop acting like I just announced I _wanted_ to die?” she demanded. “Because _I **don’t**_ **;** I said I was _willing_ to, or anything else, if it meant getting _Vati_ back!”

“If you’re both going I’m coming too,” Heinrich said. “I won’t let you go by yourselves.”

“What, _your_ kids and wife are less important than _Vati,_ too?” Nia asked acerbically.

“ _Babbo_ needs you,” Zell protested. “You and _Zio_ Vino are the ones who keep him together!”

Heinrich shrugged a little.

“I hurt him, too,” he said. “I remind him of _Vati._ ”

“Well, if we’re going to judge by how much things remind him of _Vati,_ ” Nia said in disgust. “We may as well just lock him in a _box_ for the rest of his life!”

“Don’t you remember how they met?”

“A _hole._ A _closet._ I don’t care!”

“You both don’t-” Zell tried to say.

“Zell,” Heinrich interrupted. “You’re doing this because you’ve decided it’s your duty to humanity and Nia’s in it for righteous self-sacrifice. If I _don’t_ come along, then I’m worried you’ll both lose yourselves in the Cause, and forget that the reason we’re all _really_ doing this is because we just want an answer.”

“I’m not going to forget _that,”_ Zell said softly.

Nia marched back over to the people they’d left behind.

“We’re _all_ going,” announced.

“You weren’t already?” Cassiel asked, puzzled, as Payton passed the message along. “Wasn’t that why you were all here?”

Nia made an insistent, somewhat angry gesture to her siblings that clearly said _‘you see? You see how much he knows? Why are we listening to him?’_

“You’re going to need this,” Cassiel said, and thrust a small branch at Zell. It looked strangely out of season, the leaves yellow and the wood bare of bark, smooth and the pale yellow-white-tan of raw wood. “Just head into the cave, have fun, I’ll see you when you’re done.”

He grabbed Payton and started walking off, vacating the area before anyone showed up to kick them out, or arrest them.

“I know this story,” Heinrich said when their cousin had disappeared. “Lake Avernus, animal sacrifice, a branch and a cave. This is the Aeneid.”

“At least we know what to expect then,” Zell said, walking towards the cave mouth.

* * *

Hanna Schumacher had never quite figured out if the Camorra _actually_ had a presence in Rotterdam- which seemed unlikely, but what did _she_ know about the criminal underworld- or if they just sent someone up from Naples whenever they told her they were going to have a talk.

She got to the café first, as she always did, and set her laptop up on the corner table, where her back was to the wall and no one could look over her shoulder.

The forums had, somewhat strangely, expanded and contracted. There was more traffic on the public side, now, with Cuba, and especially now after the announcement of the German Lands. Hanna was going to give it another week before it calmed down, probably gaining a few members in the process as a couple people found things they liked.

On the locked side, the private side-

They’d lost ten members in the last four years, not including Anthemion and the other forum conspirators in the terrorist attack that burned down Berlin, but including CyberiteAgape. All the other nine members had told her they were going to talk, or told someone else on the forum that they were going to talk, or violated the new locked forum rules in place and stayed inactive without previous explanation for more than three days.

Hanna hated the people who told other forum members they were going to talk the most; because then she had to tell the Camorra about the talker _and_ the other person, because they both had to go to keep the story up.

Four years, and no one had questioned the logic behind ‘Nations’ killing everyone who’d thought about talking, or who was suspected of talking, or even- on the few who’d just stayed inactive for long enough that Hanna couldn’t let it go, and _had_ to assume that they’d dropped away with the intention of talking- tracking down a few of the people who’d been involved, and killing them when _they_ wouldn’t talk.

Security came with a price, of course, but so long as the price for every assassination after CyberiteAgape was information and not money- well, that was part of what she was for. Freedom of information.

But it was so _inconvenient,_ as evidenced by their newest locked forum member.

Grażyna Król had never tried to hide her identity online, any more than Hanna herself had, and she had to grudgingly give her that. But she was a _major_ liability, and untouchable. The evidence she’d given to Hanna, privately, to prove that her father really _was_ Poland checked out. Birth certificate to Polish census to family photographs to bits from news reports- she was too close to the Nations, even if she hated them. If she died, was murdered, then Nations actually _would_ get involved.

The worst part was that Grażyna had only given this information _after_ being let on the locked forum, and ferreting out the details of Berlin, which had settled as a dark, secret current undermining everything that happened, nowadays.

But Grażyna was their best source of information; and the reason that Hanna was going to, hopefully, be able to finally get rid of the Camorra.

She didn’t know the name of the man who always showed up to take her information, but he was never late, and took the chair opposite her at the two-person table, blocking her from the view of the rest of the café.

Hanna knew better than to wait for him to speak, and just passed over a flash drive.

“He’s got four siblings,” she told the Camorra man, quietly. “He was the youngest. Vasco Durante was the fourth youngest, he died four years ago on Christmas, on vacation. He was a small-time footballer in Madrid. The eldest is Vincenzo Fidele Agresta, a graphic designer who lives with his wife Lorenza in Milan. They have a baby daughter Amadea. The second eldest is Dr. Catarina Constantia Agresta Fernandez, who lives in Amsterdam with her husband Zheng Wang, a Chinese political refugee. I know from- other associates, that he’s China’s son. He, his sister, and his wife were detained by the government. His sister and wife later turned up dead. It doesn’t seem like the Chinese government put too much effort into trying to get Zheng back, or his son, Tai Wang, who lives with his father and stepmother. Dr. Agresta Fernandez and Zheng Wang have a daughter from their marriage, Fabrizia Shi Wang, who’s almost five.”

The Camorra man gave no indication about his thoughts, and just waited for her to continue.

“The younger daughter, the middle child, _she_ lives in Naples,” Hanna told him. “Giuditta Ferrero Karpusi. She’s a real estate agent so I found her home address, too. She married Nikephoros Karpusi, who I’ve been told by a reliable source-”

_This_ was why Grażyna Król was so annoyingly indispensable. She _knew_ people, knew names and relations- without her, Hanna would never have been able to put this list together. The names would have eluded her, and any connections they’d found looking wouldn’t have been recognized. The forums had been searching four years for names, ever since they’d found the tiny article in a local newspaper about Vasco Durante Agresta Fernandez being killed in Switzerland that identified Zheng Wang as his brother-in-law. _‘Fernandez’_ they knew as Spain and they’d already been told that Zheng was China’s son, but everything else had stalled in frustration.

Then, Grażnya Król, who knew the names and parents of all her so-called _‘cousins’_.

 “-is the son of Greece. They have two children- Apollonia, who’s about seven, and Ercole, about four or five.”

Hanna wasn’t sure how the Camorra was going to react to this next bit, but-

“You told me Nicodemo Agresta was Lovino Agresta’s nephew-by-marriage,” she told the man. “He’s not. He’s his _son._ ”

_This,_ the Camorra man reacted to. She got a raised eyebrow.

“I don’t know who the woman was he said he’d divorced, because he married a _man,_ Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, who’s Spain. It looks like he moved there after they got married to raise their children. That’s why you’d never heard of any of them. But he _does_ have a brother, or something like it- Feliciano Costa Vargas. He lives in Venice, and he has three children. Maria Gisela Costa Beilschmidt is the Director of Nations’ Affairs at the UN in New York City. Nia Beilschmidt, well, you’ve probably heard of her. The fencer?”

Hanna decided she’d have to take the man’s silence as a sign that he _had_ heard of her.

“The Olympic team she just put together for Germany won them gold last month,” she added, just in case. “Then there’s Heinrich Marco Beilschmidt, or Heinrich Marco Costa, he sang opera. He dropped it for some reason after the Fire of Berlin, and has some sort of connection to the Provisional Government. He lives in Venice now. Anyway. If you want to find Nicodemo Agresta, and you’re _sure_ he’s not in Naples, you probably want to start looking in Venice or Spain, probably Madrid.”

* * *

“ _Mamusia,_ ” Roksana whimpered. “ _Mamusia_ , I don’t want to.”

“You have to, Roksana,” Teodozja told her. “It’s all right. I’ll be back after classes to get you.”

“But that’s _hours._ ”

“Not very many,” Teodozja assured her daughter. “And Miesko’s going to be there too, today, to pick you up, and then we’re going to all have dinner together. You and me and Miesko and Lena. They took off of school today to come see you, so it’s going to be a _big_ dinner, at a restaurant even.”

“I like _your_ food,” Roksana mumbled into her mother’s pantleg.

Teodozja had not believed people when they told her that small children were clingy the first day they had to go to school. This wasn’t even _real_ school, this was daycare while she took her university classes, and her four-year-old was apparently determined that she wouldn’t be parted from her mother under any circumstance.

“C’mon, Roxie,” Mieczysław cajoled. “You’re going to have a brother next year. Wouldn’t it be great to be able to tell him that _you_ were able to go to daycare all on your own when _he_ gets worried about going?”

Roksana peered up at her mother suspiciously.

“You have to come back,” she insisted.

“I’m coming back,” Teodozja promised; and instantly, Roksana was off, dashing through the door to the daycare.

Teodozja looked at her ex-boyfriend.

“How come that worked for _you?_ ”

“I’m not around her all the time,” Mieczysław told her as the three of them started to walk away from the building. “So I’m less likely to try and trick her into doing something I want.”

“That was _definitely_ a trick.”

“Well, I’m not you or Mr. Łukasiewicz, so it doesn’t matter so much to her,” he said. “I’m studying child development, trust me.”

“Oh, so the next time your computer acts up, I should say: _‘I’m studying software engineering, trust me’_?” Teodozja asked, and elbowed him to show it was a joke.

Mieczysław chuckled some and put an arm around his wife.

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt, Teodozja,” she said. “You’d know more about it than either of us.”

“I’m not _that_ good yet, Lena,” Teodozja told her. “Ask me again in five years. And- thank you for coming all this way. You didn’t have to.”

Lena smiled at her.

“I did, actually,” she said. “She’s my husband’s daughter. Classes don’t start for us until next week, so we could make it. And Stuttgart is comfortably far away from my mother-in-law.”

Teodozja raised an eyebrow at Mieczysław.

“I thought Krakow was _‘comfortably far away’_ from your mother,” she said.

“Krakow is _conveniently_ far away from my mother,” he corrected. “ _Stuttgart_ is comfortably far away. Krakow was just as far away as we could get while she’d still pay tuition. Her boundary was _‘in the same country’_. I’m surprised Mr. Łukasiewicz is paying for you to go to a foreign school. And Roksana’s care.”

“He’s really accommodating like that,” Teodozja said. She was still a uncomfortable with the generosity, but after all this time, it was a matter of noticing that she’d started to get _used_ to it, and not (completely) that she felt like Poland’s money and time could be better spent.

“I just live in dread of the day your mother discovers that he’s the one paying for our apartment,” Lena told Mieczysław.

* * *

Feliciano was used to waking up at strange hours, now, so when he found himself suddenly awake just before dawn, his immediate reaction was to see if any of his nightmare still lingered, waiting for the tangle of grief and regret that always followed, but-

The quick check for what was wrong didn’t bring back scraps of nightmare, but a terrifying _absence._

He mostly fell out of bed in his scramble, falling heavily against the door as he dashed down the hallway to the bedroom Heinrich and Adriana used, and it was _empty_ and that was not good, that was absolutely terrible, but the children were all asleep and safe and Feliciano thundered down the stairs for the door.

Adriana was in the sitting room, collapsed in the armchair.

“Hm,” he heard her grunt, stirring. “Oh, _Signor_ Feli, you’re home-”

“Where’s Heinrich?” he demanded frantically.

“He got a call last night after dinner,” she told him, still waking up. “I was going to stay up to tell you he went to Naples but you were so late-”

A thought had him in his brother’s bedroom in Naples and he was shaking him awake, yelling: _“Lovino, Lovino-!”_

He woke up immediately and flailed, nearly catching Feliciano in the face with a punch; but blinked when it missed, and pulled his brother down instead.

“Feli-”

“My _children_ are gone, Lovino, I was asleep and then they _weren’t **there** _ Adriana says Heinrich came to Naples-”

“I haven’t seen him,” Romano said, moving both of them off the bed. “Do you have any idea where-”

_“No!”_

“Go get dressed and come back, you can’t go outside like that-”

They reconvened a few minutes later, dressed, Feliciano still frantic and Romano quickly checking through the city in his head, searching for the murders in the night-

“I don’t think anyone killed them,” he told his brother. “When did he come to Naples?”

“Adriana said he got a call after dinner last night and then told her he was coming down-”

“Well, _I_ didn’t call him,” Romano said. “Why the hell would he drop everything and come overnight to Naples if I didn’t call him?”

“I don’t know, I don’t-”

“Were they _all_ in Naples?” Lovino thought to ask. “Because if they weren’t all in Naples, and disappeared at the same time, then-”

“I-” Feliciano said, fumbling for the phone he’d forgotten to bring. “I’ll call Rémy, he-”

Lovino got his own phone and dialed Rémy.

_‘What?’_ his nephew-in-law complained, woken up by the phone ringing.

“Where’s your wife?” he demanded.

_‘She flew into Naples yesterday, it’s not **my** fault if you don’t know where she is,’ _he said, and hung up before Lovino could explain anything.

“She was here too,” he told his brother, and Feliciano started shaking.

“Th-The last time,” he said. “The last time they were just _gone,_ like this, they were- it was-”

Romano had a horrible sinking feeling.

“Cristoforo said that _this_ time-”

“He was wrong before!” Feliciano cried, and sank to the floor, breathing heavily as he tried not to panic. Lovino dropped down next to him and held him, awkwardly, as he typed out a message for Cristoforo.

The Vatican appeared a few moments later, exorcism bag in hand.

“C’mon, Feli,” Lovino coaxed his brother. “Get up, we’re going to go check-”

The House was definitely the worse for wear since the last time they’d been, eight months ago. The gates were still locked shut, and the wall was as high and strong as ever, but beyond the bars decay had started to set in, the pools overgrown once more and the gravel path sprouting thick with grass, the shards of glass still nestled in the lawn glinted where the sun caught them.

The front door was still wide open, and Feliciano’s old bloodstains were still visible within the building, partially covered with blown-in debris and water damage.

Without any infernal power to keep them closed, some yanking and pounding broke the gate lock- unnecessary, perhaps, but easier on their minds than simply stepping through and having the locked barrier to their backs.

Romano kept a tight hold on his brother as they walked in, not very far, the memory of the place too oppressive. The Vatican meandered around the grounds, examining things in detail- even stepping, for a few minutes, inside the House. When he’d disappeared down the hallway Feliciano’s throat had closed up as he tried to scream for the man, but he’d reappeared some seconds later, unharmed.

“I am _certain_ there’s nothing left,” he said. “Whatever has happened to them, it did not come from here.”

“But how else-” Feliciano couldn’t bring himself to finish.

“I think we must call Prussia.”

* * *

Keld Schumacher had ended up doing a lot of things he’d never thought he’d do in the course of the job he’d taken at Rémy Beilschmidt’s coaxing.

Going to Kearney, New Jersey to mediate in the repairing of a family was only the latest of these.

Lucas Jones’ house in Kearney looked a lot like all the other houses in Kearney, typically suburban and unremarkable; nothing like the homes Keld had gotten used to, most of them crammed into government buildings that had been in service for at least a century or closed-off rooms or stand-alone buildings on the property of palaces-turned-museums. He’d been living out of hotels- nice hotels, but still hotels- for most of the last four years. He’d been back to his apartment maybe seven times in that period, and disappeared from the wider psychiatric community.

Hopefully he’d be able to go back some day. At the moment, Nations were eating his life.

“You remember how this goes?” he asked as the taxi drove away, leaving the two of them standing in the yard in front of the house.

“I’m not to get near her unless she asks first,” Lithuania said. “If she asks me to leave, I leave immediately. Lucas only goes if Rozete asks him to. I’m not to stay past the time Stasis comes home. And anything I say to her, she can tell Pavel.”

One of those other things he’d never imagined himself doing was serving as a combination of grief counselor and enforcer of sobriety. The schedule of visits he was supposed to have kept up for the European Nations were suspended in the face of the upheaval after the Fire of Berlin and the unwillingness of anyone to put up with a perpetually-drunk Nation any longer, especially in light of the way he’d simply seemed to give up after Belarus’s official dissolution. Keld probably qualified as a resident of Vilinus now, the amount of time he’d spent there.

The walk to door was short, but all the more nerve-wracking for that. They’d been watched from inside the house, because once they stepped from the grass of the lawn to the concrete of the porch, the inside front door opened and Lucas appeared in the glassed screen door, watching them. He opened the door after a moment.

“Living room,” he told Lithuania, looking at Schumacher the whole time.

Roz was already in place on the larger couch, on the far wall from the entrance to the room.

“You can sit,” she told her father.

He took a place on the part of the loveseat closest to the door. Schumacher took the other cushion, and Lucas sat down next to Roz. She leaned up against him.

“Are you-” Lithuania began.

“Yes,” his daughter interrupted him, taking hold of Lucas’ hand.

Lithuania stayed silent for a moment, just looking, long enough that Schumacher thought he should maybe discreetly poke him with his foot or something to get things started.

“I’m sorry,” Toris started with, eventually. “I’ve acted despicably. I sunk myself so deep in denial and anger that I hurt you. I- I treated you like I’d treat an enemy. I hurt you. I broke your trust, and beyond that, I didn’t uphold my responsibilities as a Nation, much less a parent in a time of grief. I took everything out on others; and willfully ignored the consequences of my actions.”

“There wasn’t a lot of trust _to_ break, _Tėvas_ ,” Roz told him. “Pavel and I gave up on trusting you much when you got so angry about me marrying David, and him going to work for _Djádja_ Vanya.”

She took a deep breath.

“You’re _controlling,_ ” she said. “First with me and sports in school, then with Pavel and college. He only studied political science because _you_ wanted him to. Working for _Djádja_ \- that was to prove he didn’t have to listen to you. I don’t even know if he even _likes_ working in the government, at all, especially with you pushing and pushing him all his life. And I married David because, yes, I loved him; but also because I wanted to prove I could be better than you. I wanted a happy relationship.”

“Your mother and I-”

“ _Maci_ never loved you,” his daughter interrupted. “She never did, and you know it. She wanted a family no one could take from her, and for her, that was marriage and children. She loved me and Pavel. But you she married because she knew you loved her, and didn’t want to lose that- not that she ever loved you back. Her siblings and us always met more to her than you.”

“I don’t know why it wouldn’t work,” Lithuania said sorrowfully. “Kateryna and Sadık were just good friends. Lovino’s never loved Antonio, not like that. Even Gilbert and Rahel and Cristoforo managed _something._ ”

“ _Titka_ Katyusha and _Dayı_ Sadık always knew they were only getting married to have a kid, and never pretended otherwise,” Roz said. “They were perfectly happy to divorce. Romano and Spain- are you _sure_ that’s working out? Because last I heard, they were basically separated. The only thing connecting Israel to _Tēws_ and Mr. Pietri was their children; but Giovanna is staunchly Catholic and as far as I know, Cassiel never gave a _shit_ about any of his parents. Mr. Pietri is Giovanna’s father; and that’s it.”

“Ukraine and Turkey are actually the closest thing to a happily-married couple that any of us have,” Lucas put in. “Even Germany and Veneziano fell apart before he died. Hungary and Austria have been flipping hot and cold to each other in fights ever since that. Everyone else married and divorced humans; or never married at all.”

“I’m- pleased, that you decided to come today, about what happened with _Maci,_ ” Roz told her father. “But you have other things to apologize for, too.”

* * *

The castle in Vaduz was appropriately picturesque, but Lichtenstein had decided that for this gathering, they were going to use her private garden. She’d had some people bring out the rest of the wrought-iron garden chairs to place near the matching table for the occasion.

“They’re energetic little demons, aren’t they?” Denmark asked fondly as he watched Prince Ulrik of Denmark and Liechtenstein toddle rapidly through the ornamental planting beds, chasing a slightly older Prince Christian Wilhelm of Norway.

“Just as they should be,” Halya Adnan, now a Princess of Norway from her marriage to Crown Princess Else Synnøve, said proudly. “ _Babam_ came to see him a couple weeks ago, and he’s the happiest grandfather I’ve ever seen.”

“And there’s going to be another one,” Else told them. “Around April.”

“Getting told that helped,” her wife agreed, smiling.

“Another child, or another son?” Sofie von Preuβen asked.

“Another son,” Else said; and Mathias grinned widely.

“More for the family!” he declared happily.        

“Sofie,” Liesl said. “I wanted to ask you about Germanenlanden.”

The atmosphere got an edge to it as everyone started to pay sharper attention.

“What about?” Sofie asked, staying calm.

“I know my brother told me the breadth of Germanenlanden’s borders,” she said. “From easternmost Switzerland to westernmost Austria, but- is it _me,_ too?”

Liechtenstein twisted her hands in her skirt.

“I- I’ve been wondering all this time, and I’d like to think that my people wouldn’t just _leave_ me like that; but nobody expected- with _Germany-_ ”

“And you didn’t ask Germanenlanden this?” Sofie asked.

“I didn’t want him to have to tell me _‘yes’_ ,”Liesl said.

“I don’t know,” Sofie told her. “It never occurred to me to ask; I’m sorry.”

“Well,” Liechtenstein said. “If you could-”

“Of course.”

* * *

The basement of the Berlin house had been given over long ago to Ludwig’s dogs and the project Prussia had kept secret from all the other Nations. The dogs were gone, now, dead; but Ladonia’s laptop was still where he’d left it, four years ago, most of the casing torn off so he could hook up the extra processing power Ladonia demanded as payment.

“We’re going to fix this up, Don,” Prussia said loudly as he carted the last box down the stairs. He’d decided to get an early start so he could spend most of the day at the office- though there wasn’t much of an ‘office’, just wherever the Provisional Government happened to be at the time. “There’s going to be people all through here soon, wiring this whole place up to support you. This whole basement will be nothing but you.”

_‘Dietrich doesn’t mind that you’re taking over a third of the house?’_ Don asked from the computer.

Prussia pulled a face and started tearing open the boxes.

“ _Dietrich_ is just staying here because he doesn’t want to pay for a hotel room. He’s going looking for apartments in Stuttgart in a bit. This is going to be _my_ house again, and if I want to turn over the basement to you and install the National Intelligence Service on the first floor, I can do that.”

_‘I don’t want to turn you out of your house.’_

“There’s too much tied up here,” Gilbert told him, pulling out some temporary servers that were settling his debt to Ladonia for his help in slipping around the world unnoticed by governments for four entire years, staying completely untraceable except for the string of friends Dietrich left behind him. “First it was me and Luitgard here, then we added Heinrich. I tried to bring up Johannes in this house, and Nikolaus. Ludwig grew up here, and so did his kids, and sometimes mine. We can’t-”

He paused, ostensibly to read the instructions he didn’t actually need, to give him time.

“We can’t ever get that back,” Gilbert continued eventually. “It’s gone. _Ludwig’s-_ ”

He switched tactics abruptly.

“When a Nation dies whoever replaces them gets their house and their stuff. More than once the next Nation sold everything, or burned it down, or else there wasn’t anything _left_ of what the other Nation had because it was destroyed in the conquering. If Dietrich doesn’t want this then it’s _mine,_ and it’s better not to let it sit around like mausoleum. That’s what Feli was doing, and I don’t think it was a good idea. I only need the top floor to live comfortably, and the government can make use of the rest. You’re going to have to tell me what to do here, Don, because I’m lost past hooking these wires in.”

Ladonia walked him through the process of getting the new servers working properly. They were mostly finished when Gilbert’s cell phone range.

“Hey, Kit, it’s early t-” he began, and stopped as he registered the faint sound of commotion on the other end of the line.

“What’s-”

_‘I need you to talk to Dietrich and ask him where Zell, Nia, and Heinrich are,’_ Cristoforo told him urgently.

“You can’t ask Feli?”

_‘Feliciano woke up and they were gone-’_

_“Gone?”_ Prussia demanded, heading for the stairs. “Kit, they-”

_‘We don’t **know** what has happened to them. They were in Naples but Lovino says they did not come to see him; and we even came up to the House, just to be absolutely certain. There is nothing here.’_

Dietrich had taken the guest room on the second floor, which was set apart from the family’s living quarters. Gilbert banged in, hoping to wake him with the noise. Sure enough, the four years of living in apartment buildings had inured the German Lands to unexpected noises. He kept sleeping.

  ** _“DIETRICH!”_** Prussia bellowed in his field-commander voice. Dietrich shot awake instantly, and screamed back:

**_“WHAT!”_ **

“Where are my nieces and nephew?” he demanded.

“I’m not your childcare service!” Dietrich shot back. “Call them yourself!”

“They’re _gone,_ Dietrich!” Gilbert said, ripping the sheets off him. “Veneziano woke up and they were _gone;_ now _find-_ ”

“If they’re _‘gone’,_ _I’m_ not going to be the one to find them!” Dietrich told him, grabbing the sheets back and pulling them over his head emphatically. “Not _my_ fault you’ve misplaced your only living relatives!”

_“They’re your people too!”_

_“And **I’m** telling you **they don’t think that!** ” _

The German Lands flipped the sheets back down to glare at Prussia.

“Even if you _hadn’t_ already told me that their own _father_ couldn’t find them, _I_ have no idea if I _could_ find them, because they may call themselves German but it’s not _my_ German, it’s _Ludwig’s_ German! Most of the time I’m pretty sure the only reason they haven’t actively disowned any connection they have to me is because they won’t let themselves _not_ be German- so, to answer your question, _no_ I don’t know where they are; and honestly, _I don’t **care!**_ ”

Prussia had been going stiff with anger as he continued, and at the last words the anger turned to simmering rage.

“Something,” he told the German Lands icily. “Is _very_ wrong with you, if you don’t _care_ that three of your _people_ just disappeared without a trace.”

“They’re _Ludwig’s_ people,” Dietrich snapped. “They always will be. There’s no point trying to pretend any differently. I have millions more who actually _like_ me.”

Gilbert whirled away, furious, and marched out the door.

“Kit-”

_‘I heard,’_ the Vatican said dryly. _‘Come meet us, will you? I think Feliciano would do well for your presence.’_

* * *

Teodozja’s obligations that day weren’t just the start of semester at the University of Stuttgart. As of last month, her enrollment had become, in her Nation’s words, _‘strategic’_.

The offices of the German Provisional Government hadn’t expanded much despite their leaders’ rise to power, now shifting from nominal to substantive with the appearance of the United Republic of the German Lands. The only difference was the announcement that the Provisional Government had bought out the rest of the building they had a section in, and the building next to it, and had hired back some of the executive staff the German government had shed upon its collapse.

The news had been _full_ of reporters staking out the offices, trying to catch important people on their way in or out for questioning. So far, they hadn’t caught much of anything; but Teodozja was fairly certain this was because the most important conversations were being held by phone, or through semi-proxy by Nations sent to open relations, assuming any other government had gotten that far yet.

Her business was definitely relationship-by-proxy.

The media line was there today, no change- but a college student not in a business suit was apparently prone to dismissal as a hopeful intern, and not an _actual_ intern, or an important visitor. She got through to the reception desk without incident.

“Teodozja Łukasiewicz, here to see Mr. Väinämöinen,” she told the woman after the door had closed. When the secretary didn’t look impressed, she added: “On behalf of Feliks Łukasiewicz?”

“One moment,” the woman said, and picked up a landline phone to call to the office of the Liaison to Exogenous Entities. “Łukasiewicz?”

“Yes,” Teodozja said, before realizing that she was asking to confirm the appointment with whoever was on the other end of the line.

The secretary moved the mouthpiece down, under her chin.

“Mr. Väinämöinen is waiting for you,” she said. “Down the hall past the stairs, Room 09.”

“Thank you,” Teodozja told her, and kept on past the desk until she found the right room.

She’d expected that, upon opening the door, she’d find a set-up like what Poland’s office was, an anteroom with a personal secretary and a chair or two to sit in, then the actual office beyond.

What she opened to was one office with a desk and too many file cabinets and a couch, bundles of paper covering everything. The man she was there to see slumped over his desk, half of his face stretched up where he was resting against his hand, the other clutching a pen, just in time to hear him mutter: “…We have a shit-ton of money.”

Teodozja froze in the doorway for a moment, long enough for Armas to realize she was there and get momentarily embarrassed about it. He stood up abruptly to shake her hand.

“Ms. Łukasiewicz- do I know you?” he asked, looking puzzled.

“We met at the royal wedding in Vaduz?” she prompted. “You and the Crown Prince of Japan-”

“Right,” Armas said, remembering. “You were- not Łukasiewicz then? Pul-”

“Pakulski,” Teodozja told him, moving a bundle of papers to sit down. It looked like part of the census. “I changed it.”

“Did he adopt you, or something?” he asked, making a slight joke of it. “You must have been a _really_ good renter if he didn’t want you to go _that_ badly.”

“I… never actually paid him anything,” she admitted. “He was giving me space because my daughter is his great-granddaughter and I got kicked out of my house because of that. After he got me legally emancipated from my parents, I changed it.”

“ _That’s_ a story,” Armas said incredulously; and Teodozja glanced down at what he’d been working on to prompt his earlier comment.

That _was_ a shit-ton of money.

“You do budgeting and the census too?” she asked politely, trying to rally in the face of a government everyone had _said_ was completely broke being rather dramatically the opposite. If they had _that_ kind of money, no wonder they’d expanded so fast and hired back so many people.

“I have no _idea_ who does the budgeting and the census,” he said. “Three weeks ago, the only people doing anything were me, the other four official members of the Provisional Government, a rota of volunteers, and a couple of university students part-time on minimum wage who Sofie von Preuβen was paying out-of-pocket. Now the volunteers are employees and the university students are almost full-time and Prussia- General Beilschmidt, sorry- has hired back what was left of the Federal Republic’s government without a lot of forewarning. We’re still in the readjustment stages.”

“You could make a spreadsheet?” Teodozja suggested, lacking any other answer.

Armas shrugged noncommittally.

“Poland sent you?” he asked, opening the conversation.

“I’m here to-” Teodozja had to pause for a moment to pull out the folded sheet of paper with her notes on them, and started quoting from it. “ _‘Open channels of beneficial communication in the absence of formal or informal diplomatic relations between Poland and the United Republic of the German Lands, in full good faith of future neighborly amiability and natural alliance.’_ ”

“You’re unofficially a diplomat?” Armas asked skeptically.

“I’m a… personal representative of Feliks Łukasiewicz to the United Republic of the German Lands and his government.”

“ _‘His’_ ,” Armas noted. “I believe, Ms. Łukasiewicz, this is one of those situations where the distinction of the sort, say, between Feliks Łukasiewiczand the Republic of Poland are essential.”

“Probably, Mr. Väinämöinen,” Teodozja agreed cautiously.

“So,” he said, leaning forward slightly over his desk. “What _exactly_ are you here to do?”

“…Get the diplomatic jump on the other Nations?” Teodozja suggested hesitantly. “I’m actually not that sure. I’m not in the position to offer you anything official. I don’t have any actual power. I’m just here as an expression of friendship on behalf of my father.”

“So Poland’s your father.”

“Not in law. In the ways that matter,” she told him. “I learned I couldn’t trust my first father with the title. And I wouldn’t have my daughter call him anything but _‘Grandfather’_.”

“I expect we’ll be seeing a lot of you, then,” was the answer.

“Probably,” Teodozja agreed. “I’ll come by again when he asks me to- or when you do, actually, that’s only fair. Let me give you my cell number. And my class schedule.”

“You’re in university?” Armas asked as she wrote it all down.

“At Stuttgart,” she told him. “Software engineering. This is my second semester.”

He stuck her information in his satchel when she finished.

“Uh- can I ask?” Teodozja ventured. “Everyone has always said you’re broke. You put on the Olympics with loans from Austria and Switzerland and a _lot_ of private donations. But you said…”

“I think, Ms. Łukasiewicz,” Armas said. “That in light of your father’s gesture of friendship, I can extend something in return. Feel free to tell him that our _very_ healthy operating budget is what Cassiel Navin paid to ensure he and his company- but most importantly for _our_ purposes, the German people- get a space program.”

“Actually-” he stopped her before she managed to quite get out the door. “Tell the Republic of Poland that we’d be grateful if he passed that news around in whatever way he judges is best.”

* * *

There should have been an indication of _something_ once they entered the cave, but there was nothing more than a soft moment of darkness around a corner, enough for a slow blink to force the eyes to adjust to the lower light levels, and then it was quiet dawn in gentle green hills, slightly rocky, in a valley floored with fine gravel and patches of greenery. To their left was a pale brown-yellow-white flat-topped arch with an unpleasantly organic sheen and a hint of ridges, a thick, dark forest visible beyond. Behind them, a similar construction, smooth and bleached white and dull, stood framing the view of a flat plain.

“This is wrong,” Heinrich said. “This is backwards. These are the Gates of Horn and Ivory; the Sibyl’s cave is supposed to put us on the shores of the Stygian Marsh, where Acheron and Cocytus flow together.”

“Well, that just means we’re in Elysium, right?” Zell asked. “I’d _much_ rather be here then start on the other side.”

Gravel crunched and shifted as Nia let her feet slide out from under her and sat down in the dirt.

“Nia?”

“We’re in the afterlife. The underworld,” she said. “I need a second.”

Zell traced the veins on one of the yellow leaves, rubbing the smooth wood between her fingers.

“It actually worked,” she said quietly. “I told Cass I didn’t think he could do it- but we’re here.”

Heinrich put an arm around her in comfort.

“Well, we have a map, of a sort,” he said. “Now that we’re here- we came in Aeneas’ exit, so I suppose we exit through his entrance. I think, as long as we don’t touch any of the water, we’ll be fine.”

“Shouldn’t there be a bunch of dead people?” Nia demanded. “Dead Greeks and Romans, at least. Virtuous pagan types. I’m not seeing any dead people.”

“I am perfectly happy to not see any dead people,” Heinrich said.

“Maybe they- left?” Zell suggested.

“Left _where?_ ” was Nia’s challenge. “They’re _dead._ ”

“You called them _‘virtuous pagans’_ ,” her sister said. “You know where that’s from? Dante.”

“We are _not_ taking Dante as scripture,” Nia said. “ _Zio_ Cris would _not_ approve.”

“ _Zio_ Cris wouldn’t _approve_ of us being here,” Zell retorted. “You ran across _Justus Georg Faust_ at Christmas. Dante is just as likely.”

Nia got up with another shifting of gravel and started down through the valley, the floor ahead on a perfectly level slope, curving to bend behind the swell of the hill.

“Where are you-”

“Maybe there are dead people over here,” she called back. “And that’s what we’re here to find, isn’t it? Dead people.”

“We’re here to find _Vati,_ ” Heinrich said, picking up his pace to catch up.

“And we’re going to need to ask someone where to start,” Nia pointed out. “Or do you _want_ to wander the hills forever?”

“It’d be pretty,” Zell told her.

“Until we starved to death,” Heinrich said.

The valley floor was longer than it looked. It took a few minutes to reach the bend, which turned out to be a short, sharp, almost s-curve, foreboding in the steep sides of the hills, now more rocky than green, and dark in the deep dawn shadows. They were silent here, in the oppressive mood of the landscape, but immediately beyond the curve the floor widened out and the gravel gave way to pounded dirt and short, thick ground covering, grasses and clover and weeds and, in places, moss. Low-growing wildflowers added a dash of cover, and ahead of them a wide, shallow river, astonishingly clear to the rocky bed, was girded by a wooden footbridge.

“What do you think?” Zell asked Heinrich as they began to cross. He stopped at the midway point of the bridge and turned around slowly, taking in the panorama. Behind them, a line of high hills bordered by the meandering river, the occasionally tree-crowned rises cutting off downriver abruptly, but rising to full mountains in the distance upriver. Ahead of them, across the river, more meadows- then beyond that a forest, and to their right a ridge of cliff-face, rising over the tree tops to tower in a plateau. The thick streams of two waterfalls girded a massive ruin of stone, visible at the base of the cliff even so far in the distance, a tall tower rusted through on most of the side facing them still stood, and a patch of hard white light. Over the forest not ruled by the ridge, the horizon was obscured with a thick mist, perhaps a fog bank, half burned away by the rising sun.

Immediately in front of them grazed a herd of horses, spread out across the gentle down-slope of the land towards the forest. A house- better to call it a hut, generously a cottage- stood low to the ground. Smoke drifted from the chimney.

That was the only sign of any human presence besides themselves.

“This is the Lethe, maybe,” he told his sisters. “I think the forest is the myrtle wood Aeneas saw the shades of those who died because of love in. If _that’s_ true, then the fog is from the Acheron and the Cocytus meeting to make the Styx. Over there-”

He pointed the waterfalls and the ruin.

“The Phlegethon. The tower and the gates, those can only be the iron tower of Tisiphone, one of the Furies; and the diamond gates of Tartarus, but-”

“It’s in ruins,” Zell finished for him. “No one’s there. There’s… nothing here.”

“There’s whoever lives there,” Nia reminded her, gesturing to the far-off hut.

“I have no idea what that is,” Heinrich said. “Or what’s with these horses. The only horses in the afterlife Virgil talked about were the unhitched chariot teams of the fallen heroes.”

“Well, seeing as how there’s no chariots and no heroes,” Nia began. “Do you think everyone just- I don’t know. Disappeared. When people stopped taking it all seriously?”

“But there are people who _do_ believe in this,” Zell said. “Neo-pagans.”

“So what?” Nia asked. “Everything was just gone suddenly, so one day somebody moved in? Are we _really_ going to go with the theory that somebody was just _hanging around_ the borders of the underworld with a herd of horses and decided that-”

She looked to her brother.

“What, the Fields of Elysium?” she asked; and when he nodded in agreement, continued: “-the Fields of Elysium would make the perfect pasture land and just casually walked in and took it all?”

“I don’t _actually_ know how this works,” Heinrich told her sharply. “I only know what Virgil wrote.”

“Well, _clearly_ Virgil never came down here, so-”

“Why don’t we start by getting off the bridge?” Zell suggested. “We can decide whether or not we want to go to the house _after_ that.”

The horses were definitely domesticated, because as soon as they stepped off the bridge one of them came to investigate, a shiny red with a white-tan mane and tail that huffed at them, snuffling in Nia’s hair for a few moments before turning and trying to lip at the branch Zell was holding.

“Hey, _no,_ ” she said sternly, and backed off. Heinrich moved forward to try and pet it; but the horse lifted its head and tail and pranced sideways away to dash off, towards the mountains, neighing as it turned around in the distance to canter back. At the sound, most of the other horses lifted their heads, most still chewing grass, ears pricked towards the sound.

“Is there such a thing as attack horses?” Heinrich muttered nervously. “I mean, warhorses-”

From down in the hills came a new horse, black, tall and strong and solid. It had a bareback rider- a woman, they saw as she came closer, her hair as black as her horse and gathered in a thick twisted bundle in the back, held in place by ribbons in bronze-gold woven through. Her clothes were loose and draping to the knee, in the same color as the ribbons; shoes short and brown leather, matched to the leather of the work apron and gloves she wore, and the horse’s bitless rein.

It looked like the horse was going to run them down, and Nia got her siblings behind her so she could stand her ground; but what actually happened was that the horse went into a lock-legged, hoof-digging halt right in front of Nia and arched its neck to look down at her, snorting in her face.

The riding woman looked down at them, too, watching them as maneuvered her horse into turning sideways.

“It has been a while since I’ve seen one of those,” she said, eyeing the branch Zell held. “Very long.”

She nudged the horse into walking a slow circle around them.

“Strange,” she pronounced. “No one comes this way without a claim of uncommon lineage, announcing it to any and all comers, but you. Tell me, visitors, what power do you place in your heritage?”

Zell hesitated before answering her.

“I’m Gisela, and these are my younger siblings, Heinrich and Lavinia-”

“A Roman name,” the woman cut in, and pulled up next to Nia. “And what story do you come to tell me, child of Marcus Aeneas Iovis? Shall I be hearing the name Iupiter again, or will it be Neptune, Venus?”

“I’m not Roman,” Nia told her. “Those Romans are dead. I am German, and my parents are Ludwig Beilschmidt and Feliciano Costa.”

The woman frowned.

“I do not know these names,” she said. “And I do not know _‘German’_. The Romans are dead, you say?”

“Marcus Aeneas Iovis?” Zell asked. “ _Anima Romarum_? If that’s who you meant- he’s been dead centuries.”

“Ludwig Beilschmidt was the Federal Republic of Germany,” Heinrich told the woman, catching on. “Feliciano Costa is the Italian Republic, Veneziano.”

“The Republic of Venice?” Zell prompted. “The Veneti? Felicianus, brother of Lavinius, who is Neapolis-”

_“Neapolis!”_ the woman said, smiling widely. “ _Venice;_ the fisher, the salt-roller, the trader- yes, we know them here.”

She slid off her horse to stand with them, disconcertingly shorter than all of them after sitting so high up.

“Your father?” she asked. “I never knew Animae to have any children but the people they were.”

“It was completely unprecedented for everyone,” Zell told her.

“Why come here?” the woman asked. “Why would Venice not send you to Polí Thálassas? What can Kore Despoina possibly do for him that Amphitrite Kataiis could not?”

“Because Venice didn’t send us,” Nia said. “We came by ourselves. We want answers.”

Kore Despoina raised an eyebrow.

“What, on horses?” she asked, waving a hand to her herd. “On grasses and root vegetables and kitchen gardens? There are humans who can do that-”

“Our other father,” Heinrich told her. “Ludwig Beilschmidt. Germany. He- we lost him. We want to know what happened to him; and if there’s anything we can do. _Should_ do.”

Kore threw up her hands.

“Well that’s barely an issue at all!” she exclaimed. “You don’t want to be in Orcus; you want to be in Irkalla!”

She pointed off into the distance, towards the haze of mist over the woods.

“I will take you,” Kore told them. “It’s no bad thing to be owed a favor by an Animae- they so seldom make deals.”

All three of them winced at the wording; and Kore reached for the reins of her horse, but it tossed its head and jerked the reins far out of her reach and danced into position behind Nia, stopping so the reins draped over her shoulder.

Kore froze in place, hand still outstretched.

“He likes you,” she said, expression gone inscrutable. Her hand closed in a fist, and she lowered it. “Can you ride bareback?”

“I’m not going to take your horse!” Nia protested.

“Arion is _not **‘my’** _ horse,” Kore Despoina told her. “Can you _ride,_ Lavinia?”

“I’ve never been on a horse in my life.”

Kore sighed, looking a strange combination of resigned and in pain.

“And I suppose your siblings never have, either?” she asked; and then continued, not waiting for an answer. “Very well, Venice’s children- we will get you horses and tack, and I will take you to see Ereshkigal and get your answers.”

* * *

Feliciano latched onto Gilbert as soon as he appeared, pleading with him silently.

“Dietrich can’t find them either.”

Prussia wasn’t sure whether it was better to try and reassure his brother-in-law or to politely ignore him and let him process the news on his own; and so compromised by looking at his other half and asking: “You can find all your kids?”

Romano nodded.

“Safe, all of them, mostly in bed. And yours?”

“Gianna will come to no harm,” Cristoforo answered. “I checked on her before I came, and told her to remain within the Vatican until I returned.”

“Cass is in Berlin, doing whatever it is he actually does,” Gilbert said, and side-eyed the Vatican. “Kit…”

“What?” Cristoforo asked, and then caught on. “No. _No,_ Prussia, I will not _encourage_ him-”

“Well how else are we going to find them?” he demanded, pulling out his phone. “One, Cass is a relative; and two, he’s the best we’ll get unless we drag in England, and I’m pretty sure you’d enjoy _that_ a whole lot less.”

He turned away from the others when the call connected, the Vatican crossing his arms and staring sternly at Prussia’s back, Lovino taking hold of his brother again.

“Cass,” they heard Prussia say. “We need you to do something. Yeah, _‘we’_ , me and your _Patrus_ and his brothers, but mostly Feli- _no,_ we don’t need money!”

His frustration was palpable as Cass presumably continued talking right over the objection.

“ _Cassiel!_ Zell and Heinz and Nia went _missing_ this morning, we can’t _find_ the-”

Prussia froze for a quick second, the line of his shoulders hardening; and then he disappeared, coming back a moment later, holding Cass half off his feet by the front of his shirt and his other hand around Payton’s wrist.

_“You ‘saw them **off’ WHERE!** ” _he roared.

“I was in the middle of a thing!” Cass protested, twisting so he could see his translator’s hands.

“I don’t _care!_ ” his father snapped at him. “Your _cousins_ are _gone-_ they’re _dead,_ for all we can tell- and _you’re_ telling me you-”

“I’m not sure if you can technically construe what happened as them dying,” Cass said. “It’s not like I _stabbed_ them or anything.”

_“Then **what the fuck** did you **DO-!** ”_

Cristoforo pushed himself between Cassiel and Gilbert before Prussia could progress past shaking his son.

“Gilbert-”

“ _Dammit, Kit!_ ” Gilbert snarled. “He’s been _messing_ with shit again-”

“I’ll have you know I knew _exactly_ what I was doing,” Cassiel retorted. “There were directions and everything! I followed them exactly: sacrifice four black heifers, one black lamb-”

There was an incoherent noise that might have been rage, or might have been fear.

“I don’t see why _you’re_ complaining,” Cassiel said to the Vatican. “Animal sacrifice is in the Old Testament, it’s perfectly acceptable.”

_“You-”_

The Vatican couldn’t get anything else out, and was left standing there for a moment in the middle of a large gesture meant to convey _‘I cannot believe you do not grasp this concept’_ , which was completely lost on his son, before he whirled around in frustration and walked off to a short distance away, trying to pace out his anger.

“Cass,” Prussia said forebodingly. _“What did you do?”_  

“Zell bet me I couldn’t do it,” Cass huffed. “She showed up in Wales when everyone else was out and said she’d had an idea but she’d understand if it couldn’t be done! Of _course_ it could be done!”

“I get the feeling Zell understands him more than his parents,” Lovino quietly remarked to his brother, trying to distract him a little. “That’s a classic one, and she didn’t even imply anything. She just let him _think_ she’d implied.”

“ _What,_ Cass?” Prussia demanded. “ _What_ couldn’t be done?”

“Zell wanted to find out what really happened to Germany,” Cass told him. “And when I stalled for three years _she_ thought she’d have to come up with something else, but I _proved-_ ”

“Oh my God,” Eglantine said. “Mr. Navin, you _didn’t._ ”

“Holy shi-”

Gilbert stopped himself.

“I didn’t bring you! How did you get here!”

“The walking thing isn’t hard to do and Mr. Navin _you **said** that was an **intellectual exercise!** ”_

“No I didn’t,” Cass said, sounding confused. “When did I say that? I was being entirely serious; why would I ask you to research a question if I didn’t need a usable answer?”

“Because-!” Eglantine threw her hands up, ineffectually. “Because Grandfather sent me to you to _learn_ things! Because there’s no reason I should _ever_ expect you to _do_ something like that!”

“Oh yes you _should,_ ” Lovino interrupted, stalking forward. “What the _fuck_ did he do to my family!”

“Well they were _looking_ for a dead man, so I sent them to somewhere dead people go,” Cassiel answered reasonably. “It was Eglantine who had that idea. _I_ was going to try summoning something and asking it questions, but I couldn’t figure out if anything I found would actually _work_ and, given history-”

He waved at the ruins of the House.

“-I’m pretty sure that’s something I don’t want to mess up.”

“I summarized the Sixth Book of the _Aeneid_ for him everything the Sybil did to get her and him to Hades I’m _sorry!_ ” Eglantine wailed.

_“You-!”_ the Vatican shrieked at Cassiel. “Bad enough _already,_ and now- _pagans!_ ”

“Eglantine very helpfully pointed out that the Bible is incredibly unhelpful in this situation,” Cass replied.

“ _‘There shall not be found among you any one that maketh his son or his daughter to pass through the fire, or that useth divination, or an observer of times, or an enchanter, or a witch,_ ” Cristoforo quoted. “ _‘Or a charmer, or a consulter with familiar spirits, or a wizard, or a necromancer. For all that do these things are an **abomination unto the Lord’-!**_ ”

“You think I don’t know that?” Cass asked. “Eglantine quoted that for me in the report, see, right here-”

“ _Why,_ Cass?” Gilbert asked, resigned. “Why don’t you-”

“I have science and magic,” Cass said simply. “What do I need religion for?”

Eglantine moaned and sank to the ground, locking her hands behind her head.

“Besides,” he continued. “It’s a dying thing. You _know_ it is. How many people actually _believe?_ People say they do, but how many _actually-_ ”

“More than you know!” Cristoforo snapped hotly. “More than you could _ever_ care to look for, or _about-_ ”

“Whatever,” Cassiel said. “I’m done. I’ve got a meeting to go back too. Zell and them will turn back up when they’re done with their thing.”

He took a step backward and disappeared before anyone could react. Prussia took half a step forward to go after him, but Cristoforo reluctantly took hold of his arm, stopping him.

“Lovino,” Feliciano whispered into the silence. “Lovino, _please,_ you _have_ to go talk to Kore, _please,_ before they get themselves in trouble-”

“I’m going to go,” Lovino promised his brother. “But I can’t go _right now-_ I have to find something I can take to trade her that will survive going the short way with me, because Zell and Heinz and Nia already took the long way and no one else _can_ until their done and like _hell_ I’m going through more than one territory to get there! And then I have to prepare for being gone for an inexplicably long amount of time, just in case- I have to have an _excuse-_ ”

“Is this the same place as the Tylwyth Teg?” Eglantine asked quietly.

Romano paused.

“A little,” he said after a moment. “You can get there from Kore’s place. But it’s not really… the same thing. The same- fuck it, how am I supposed to _explain-_ ”

“I’ve been,” Eglantine reminded him. “Is it like the difference between Morningtown and the Hills; or the Hills and the World Gate?”

“Morningtown,” Romano told her. “But compared to Kore? The Tylwyth are townspeople.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said again, tears starting to form. “I’m so, _so_ sorry; I _can’t-_ ”

“They’re going to get themselves _trapped!_ ” Feliciano insisted, growing more hysterical the longer he had to think about it. “They don’t _know_ the rules or the people or _anything_ they aren’t _prepared_ they’re going to- they’re going to make a _bad deal!_ They’re going to end up owing someone more than they can pay you _have_ to go-”

“I said-”

“You have to go _now!_ ” Feliciano cried. “Lovino the longer they’re the more chance they have of selling their souls!”

Lovino’s eyes darkened in sadness.

“Feli-”

“They _can,_ ” Feliciano insisted through his tears. “They _can_ and you _know_ that the people there will accept it; you _know_ they will-”

“If they get in too deep I can take it to the Jagdsprinz,” Prussia told him firmly, trying to provide some comfort. “I can tell him the truth; that they were taken advantage of-”

“The Jagdsprinz is dead,” Eglantine cut in. “The Hunt no longer rides. Queen Nicnevin said. Grandfather insulted her when he came to rescue me and she- screamed it at him. Right before she tried to have him arrested.”

“Since when the hell has the Jagdsprinz been _dead?_ ” Prussia demanded.

“No one said-”

“He’s- He’s the _Erlkönig!_ ” Prussia continued in disbelief, ignoring her. “I thought they _couldn’t_ die!”

“What,” Lovino asked acerbically. “Like a Nation can’t just suddenly wake up someone else?”

_“Lovino,”_ Feliciano begged. “I-I can’t! _I’ve_ sold my soul and _maybe_ if they do it they won’t end up in Hell but _I’ve been there-_ ”

“You’ve **_WHAT,_** ” Gilbert exclaimed.

“-and I _can’t_ let that happen t-to _my_ **_children-_** ”

“Feliciano,” Cristoforo said gently; and not for the first time on this topic. “It was the demon who showed you that. Demons are liars by nature. You saw Holy Rome there, and given what we know now, I’m sure you were only supposed to _think_ it was Hell.”

“No,” Feliciano shook his head. “No; no- Cristoforo, it- I don’t want to _believe_ it, because if it was _true_ th-then Heinrich an-and _Ludwig-_ ”

He choked on the rest.

“It felt so _real-_ ”

Gilbert glared at the ruins of the House.

“I am really fucking _sick_ of surprises about this place.”

* * *

“I don’t know, it seems kind of small,” Elke said.

“It’s not,” Dietrich insisted. “It’s just me; I only need the two rooms.”

“I take work home,” Elke told him. “Fadri takes work home. I think Armas and Sofie take their _entire_ offices home. General Beilschmidt is installing his offices in his _actual house._ I’m pretty sure you’re going to do need a home office. Two rooms won’t cut it. Get three and put a desk in the other bedroom.”

Dietrich sighed.

“But I _like_ this one,” he complained.

“C’mon, we can talk about it at lunch,” Elke said. “I know a place from my college days- you’ll like it, it’s a hotbed of liberal activism. Free-trade coffee, all-organic products, lending library in the back, the works. You even get a free issue pamphlet with every order.”

“Can I stand on my chair and start declaiming about the complexities of capitalist globalization and the moral responsibilities of the individual consumer?”

Elke clapped him on the back.

“The more I hear you speak, the less surprised I am to know how thoroughly you managed to piss all of your neighbors off.”

“They’re easy to insult,” was Dietrich’s answer to that; and didn’t say anything else until they got to the café, just watching his capital as they walked.

“Artsy,” he remarked, looking around when they arrived. “This is all local talent and volunteered time, isn’t it?”

“You know us so well,” Elke said, pressing a hand dramatically to her heart. “Hey, Ute!”

The woman working tables- maybe she was waiting them, Dietrich couldn’t quite tell, since it looked like she was in the middle of a conversation with some university students- looked up, smiling widely, and announced to the room: “Elke Bastian, everybody!”

There was a round of friendly applause, some of it rather intense. Dietrich joined in, clapping just slow enough for it to have an edge of sarcasm.

Elke smiled at him sharply and made a flourishing presentation gesture.

“And Dietrich Ehren, Germanenlanden!” she announced. The applause picked up and there were a few shouts of _“Es lebe Germanen!”_ and it was _good;_ but seriously embarrassing. He shoved her lightly on the shoulder to express this and waited for the attention to die down.

A man came out from the kitchen and hugged Elke tightly as Ute got drinks and a table in the corner for them, stuck between the wall to the kitchen and the start of the window bank fronting the street.

“Hello, beautiful,” the man said to Elke, beaming a little lopsidedly. Dietrich frowned at him, trying to parse the feeling he was getting from the man. He could _feel_ him, but yet-

“And how is international politics lately?”

“Complicated,” Elke told him as they started to head to their seats. “Everyone wants what they don’t have but we’re finally in the position to get some of it ourselves.”

“I heard you had an unsuspected windfall-”

“Elke,” Dietrich interrupted, pointing at the man.

“Right-uh, Dietrich,” Elke said. “That was Ute Kassmeyer; and this is Brian Bruce. He’s a Scottish expat looking for German citizenship.”

“I almost had it,” Brian said, extending his hand for Dietrich to shake. “And then the government collapsed in an inferno of hatred and anger. I’m pretty sure I’ve outstayed my visa.”

“I… don’t care that much?” Dietrich said, trying to be reassuring. “Elke, is this Armas’s job or Sofie’s?”

“If I knew,” Elke said, sitting down. “Don’t you think I would have already had them doing something about renewing work visas?”

“You might have and I just don’t know about it yet,” he argued, taking the chair by the windows, across of Elke and Ute. Brian stole a chair from another table and crowded into the walkway area. “There’s a lot of things I don’t know about what you’re doing yet.”

“We’re working on it,” she promised. “In the meantime- welcome to the birthplace of _Germanen für Landesstolz_.”

“Here?” he asked, looking around. It made sense, at least- a liberal university hotspot for the birth of a stringently aracial nationalist unification party.

“Here,” Elke corrected, jabbing a finger to the tabletop. It, like all the other flat surfaces in the café, up to and including the counter, were decoupaged with political tracts. “Right here. Me, Fadri, _these_ two, my brother, and Xaver Kraus.”

“There’s a lot of memories in this table,” Ute told him. “Good and bad. I remember Elke and Manfried and Fadri spending an entire day in these chairs, hashing out their manifesto.”

“You could have been a part of that,” Elke said to her. “You really could have, Ute.”

Ute shrugged.

“I agree with you, Elke, completely,” she said. “But I’m not cut out for the sort of political work the three of you wanted to do. Maybe, if Manfried hadn’t been killed, I would have followed all of you to Berlin. But all I ever _really_ wanted was to run this café.”

“Ute and Elke’s brother were engaged,” Brian told Dietrich.

“What about us?” Elke asked her friend playfully. “Are _we_ still engaged?”

“The only indiscretions I will forgive you for are those with _him,_ ” Brian said slyly, jerking a thumb at Dietrich, who promptly choked on his water. “In that case, I entered this relationship knowing full well the lure a unified German state had on your psyche and I cannot in good conscious condemn you for them. Consider this future clearance.”

 Dietrich coughed to finish getting his airway clear and scowled at him, unamused.

“If you’re so into each other, why aren’t you married yet?” he asked suspiciously.

“I’m not going to get my citizenship as an accessory to our relationship,” Brian told him stubbornly. “It’s going to be a completely separate thing, because I want to live here independently of any conjugal ties to this country. I’m going to be a citizen first; and a married man second.”

“This is the sort of conviction I was talking about,” Ute told Dietrich. “They have so much more than me. I just don’t have their fervor. They would have run straight to Berlin if Elke hadn’t wanted to leave where Manfried died. Xaver- that’s Xaver Kraus- he’s the only one who got up that far right once he was done with university.”

“If he’s in Berlin, why haven’t I heard of him?” Dietrich asked. “Shouldn’t he be on the Provisional Government somewhere?”

“He would have been,” Elke told him. “He was our pamphleteer, but it turns out he wasn’t comfortable trying to run a field office by himself. He swung his political writing experience into an internship at the Reichstag, and…”

“I’m sorry,” Dietrich said.

Elke examined the table a moment before pointing to one of the tracts sealed to the table.

“That one’s one of his,” she told him. “I still have some of his stuff if you want to read the whole thing.”

Dietrich gave it a quick look through.

“Anthemion?”

“It was his penname.”

* * *

“ _First_ he’s not human, he’s a Nation!” Alfeo Bottegante ranted. “ _Then_ Nicodemo Agresta isn’t his nephew, he’s his _son!_ _Then_ he has an _actual_ nephew, and nieces besides!”

“Schumacher has a new source,” Gianluca told him. “She’s found someone who knows the family. Agresta’s relatives are… unfortunately well-connected. The United Nations. The German Provisional Government. A number of foreign governments. There is an upside to it.”

“What?” Bottegante demanded.

“When she brought up China, she mentioned she had the information from ‘other associates’. I can’t help but wonder, given that she entangled herself with all those neo-Nazi German nationalist groups, that those ‘other associates’ are those North Koreans that China accused of bombing their Nation and used as an excuse to withhold their help.”

That brought Bottegante up short.

“Gianluca,” he said. “Are you suggesting that we try to hold North Korea’s nuclear self-destruction over her head?”

His second-in-command shrugged.

“We should press a little, perhaps,” he said. “Imply that we suspect. See how she reacts. If nothing else, providing the information that gave China the reason to abandon North Korea when South Korea invaded and the ensuing nuclear action- well, death by atomic bomb, even if about half the causalities were in an invading army, _that_ has a bigger moral condemnation on it than providing the information that burned part of a city down. A government toppled in either instance, certainly, and that’s no light weight to bear. Hanna Schumacher is a very intrepid sinner.”

* * *

When Hanna got back to her home, she logged into her account and sent a terse _‘thank you’_ to Grażyna Król, because she could despise her presence all she wanted, but by God, she was going to stay to polite to the woman and not give her the satisfaction of being rude.

Then it was time for administrative duties. Hanna sighed heavily when she saw the newest thread was yet _another_ rant about this so-called _‘Germanenlanden’_. She clicked on the poster’s username and started typing a private message.

_‘Keep it on the designated thread!’_ she pounded out. _‘I **get** that you’re pissed that nothing’s changed and Anthemion and everyone died for nothing but can you at **least** follow the guidelines about it?’_

Clytemnestra turned out to still be on, because they fired back immediately with an angry reply.

_‘You don’t know what it’s like, Elke!’_ it began. _‘Every day in the GfL offices, hearing people go on and ONabout him! They’re calling him Dietrich now and not Ludwig, Germanenlanden and not Deutschland, but I can’t STAND it! Anthemion was one of the best of us, one of the first, and now Elke Bastian is just- FRATERNIZING with him! They went APARTMENT SCOUTING together today! She’s a fucking hypocrite, a traitor to her own ideals, and she doesn’t DESERVEthe power she has- her own BROTHER was killed by Neo-Nazis and now-’_

Hanna felt like she could skip the rest of the message and just go straight to the reply.

_‘I don’t care that much, Clytemnestra. Keep it together and remember that Anthemion got tricked. We all did. But they won’t understand, so all you have is us.’_

She hit _‘Send’_. The screen automatically went back to her received messages screen. By chance, her gaze caught on the words _‘should go out like Esparza’_.

Damn it.

She’d need the Camorra back after all.

* * *

Pavel picked up the phone as soon as it started ringing, and unobtrusively shut himself in Russia’s office closet. His uncle gave him a questioning look as he went in, wanting to know how the meeting between his sister and his father had gone.

_‘I’ll tell you later,’_ Pavel mouthed at his uncle, and closed the door.

“Are you okay?” he asked immediately, once he heard the call connect.

_‘I’m fine,’_ Rozete told him. _‘Tėvas_ _followed all the rules.’_

“Good,” he said, relieved. “Good. So Stasis didn’t come home early, or decide he wanted some sort of personal revenge, or-”

_‘He stayed at his friend’s house the whole time. Lucas is driving over to pick him up now.’_

“Thank God for Lucas.”

_‘Yeah,’_ his sister agreed.

“When are you going to marry that man, Roz?” Pavel asked. “ _Four years_ you’ve been living with him, he’s helping pay for Stasis’ college tuition-”

_‘He’s not that into marrying,’_ she told him, using the standard line. _‘And I’m not sure I want to get remarried that badly, not after David and Maci.’_

“Well,” Pavel said. “Just don’t go and do it without giving us fair warning so we can all come over.”

_‘Of course not,’_ Roz promised, and then fell silent for a few moments. _‘Pavel…’_

“Yes?”

_‘He apologized. I didn’t accept it.’_

“You didn’t?” he asked, surprised. “You’re completely within your rights not to, but I thought since you accepted the meeting-”

_‘I told him he had to apologize for **everything,** ’ _she clarified. _‘Everything he’s ever done to break our trust, the things he did to you and the things he’s done to me and he has to **mean** it and really **believe** and understand how it was all wrong and apologize to **both** of us before I forgive him **anything.** ’_

It was Pavel’s turn to be silent.

“That’s… a lot for him to do.”

_‘It’s not too much to ask.’_

“No, but- I’m not sure he can _do_ all of that,” Pavel said. “If those are the conditions for you forgiving him anything, I don’t think he’ll ever get any from you. I’m fine with him, Roz, as much as I can be. I’m not really _mad_ at him for pushing me into politics, not anymore- I like my job, and as long as I’m not doing politics on his terms, it’s okay. I’m just glad he apologized to you. And kind of surprised he followed the rules.”

_‘I’m not changing the boundaries,’_ Roz told him. _‘Not after I just set them.’_

“I’m not going to make you,” Pavel assured her. “Just- if he ever asks you. You can tell him.”

_‘Okay.’_

“Keep staying safe, all right? If he relapses or something, call-”

_‘I know, Pasha, Lucas and me worked it out. I call you and he gets his father down here. America can handle it. And I’d rather not drag Djádja Vanya into anything with an angry Tėvas unless I have to.’_

“You’re probably right,” Pavel admitted. “I’m kind of standing in his closet right now, so I’m pretty sure he’s eavesdropping, just so you know.”

Roz laughed.

_‘Well, get off the phone and go reassure him,’_ she ordered. _‘Love you, Pasha.’_

“Love you too, Roz,” Pavel said, and hung up. Sure enough, when he opened the door, Russia was leaning against the wall just outside of it.

“Everything’s fine,” he told him.

* * *

Just as she’d said, Kore Despoina got Zell and Heinrich horses and tack. Nia she told to pick out tack rather than selecting a set herself, presumably the ones that went with the horses she was lending them.

Nia looked around and came back with a bridle and saddle in dark leather, the fabric covering the saddle pad black and gold thread interwoven so it looked like thin black gauze was laid over the gold.

When Kore asked her why she’d chosen what she had, Nia told her it had looked like they’d gone together, the saddle pad dark like the metal work on the leather tack.

“It looks like something belongs here,” she’d said, touching a set of straps on the saddle when Kore had buckled everything on for her.

“You can attach a scabbard there,” Kore told her. “I don’t suppose that’s any use for you.”

“I can fight,” Nia said. “That’s why I’m along with my siblings. They can’t.”

Kore’s expression had gone like it had when Arion had made it clear he preferred Nia; but cleared again when she mounted a new horse- bareback, again- and got to watch the three of them fumble their way into getting into their saddles.

Eventually they managed to get out onto the path where it passed in front of Kore’s hut, and headed into the forest. Heinrich nodded to himself when they passed into the trees and he found that they _were_ myrtles, after all.

After a point the path started to slope more steeply, and cut down into the ground, walls rising above them as the mist thickened and the sound of rushing water got louder and louder. The path ended, eventually, in a shore that would have been called sandy if it hadn’t been choked with scum from the marsh before them that spread out to all horizons, a foul-smelling miasma of thick water vegetation and insects.

Out in the thin mist, rising up from the muck, was a great stone wall, dark and looming.

Kore trotted her horse up and down the shore a few times before striking out onto a wooden walkway mostly hidden by plant growth.

“Don’t stray,” she told them. “Irkalla has a guardian in the water.”

They all kept a nervous eye out for it, and eventually spotted a ridge in the water, directly alongside the walkway, like a giant crocodile was hidden directly under the surface. The walkway trembled slightly as the monster swam under it, merely a dark shape that they only made out when the tail, thinner than the body but massively long, came into view and provided the contrast of empty water.

“This isn’t a very inviting place,” Zell whispered to Heinrich.

“I’m officially lost,” Heinrich whispered back. “This isn’t in Virgil. This isn’t anything Roman, or Greek. I have no idea what’s going on.”

The walkway was long, and the stone wall ahead of them just kept getting bigger and bigger, and eventually resolved itself as a set of walls, seven of them, each slightly taller than the last. Presumably they encircled an island; but if they did the island was _huge,_ large enough that they would have said it was the other shore if they hadn’t seen that the swamp went around it.

When you were almost up to the outside wall, it seemed to go on forever in every direction.

At the gate was a new woman, leaning on a tall staff with a flared head, her hair black and gathered like an Egyptian headdress, eyes lined in the same style. There was an ostrich feather tied into her hair, and she was wearing a cloak of feathers in all shades of gray.

“Kore Despoina, there is a human woman riding Arion,” she said after giving them all a long look.

“She is no human as you count these things, Mayet,” Kore told the guard. “She is the daughter of Venice by another Anima, Germany; and she and her siblings come seeking him. They wish to see Ereshkigal, and learn of his state.”

“This is highly unusual,” Mayet said. “I should push you off and let Ammut eat you. No one comes to Irkalla without the agreement of Ereshkigal.”

“Technically we are still in Duat,” Kore argued. “And who are you, Mayet, to say that Ereshkigal would not agree to let Venice’s children in? _Surely_ this would interest her- and _you._ ”

She made a sweeping gesture that compromised mostly Nia and Arion rather than anyone else.

Mayet’s eyes narrowed and she leaned forward on the staff, peering at Nia for a few long moments before they flared open again, the whites momentarily in brilliant contrast with her kohl, the impression of wings beating into flight within them.

“It does,” Mayet agreed, straightening. “Wait. I will speak to Ereshkigal.”


	25. 2052: September

At least, Miervaldis told himself, he didn’t have to worry about getting into the office.

He was, of course, still left with the problem of _how the **fuck** to explain this to the rest of the staff._

Zell’s office at the United Nations was large enough for her desk and her bookshelf and space to walk around her desk to sit down, plus one chair that was usually shoved in the corner, only to be taken out and arranged in front of the desk when there were visitors, which was basically never. In fact, the only people who ever came by the Office of Nations’ Affairs, besides the custodial staff, were the Nations themselves. Even in the furor over Cuba, four years ago, everyone had only sent emails and inter-office memos, not physically come down and express their panic and grievances in person.

There had been one upside to that situation, at least- they’d been allotted construction work. At the time of Cuba, the Office had been a door with a large open space behind it, and two rooms- Zell’s in the back right corner, and Miervaldis’s in the back left- leading off it. They’d placed a desk about a third of the way into the room from the entrance door, stuck David the Intern at it, put two old couches and a coffee table behind the desk in Zell’s anticipation of Nation visitors, and done the best they could.

The summer after the Fire, when the UN broke for the session, work crews had descended, and when they’d left- astonishingly on time, despite expectations- the Office’s open space had been entirely rearranged. Now, the front desk was immediately to the right of the entrance door, and David had his own desk, on the wall behind it. The couches had been reupholstered and placed, with the table, to the left of the door in a sort of waiting area. From the waiting area you could go down a hallway, which had the door to Keld Schumacher’s new, official office about halfway down to the right. At the turn Miervaldis’s door was to the left; and Zell’s faced it from the opposing end of the corridor. The turn after Zell’s office led to the supply closet, which they mostly didn’t use, though Miervaldis had invested in a folding cot, iron, and ironing board, just in case.

He had very nearly been justified when Germanenlanden turned up, because Zell had been out of the office and it was just him and David and who had to handle _everything._ When Zell had come back, she’d hired a woman named Verena to take over the front desk from David, who had ceased to be an Intern three years earlier, but had been doing the same work despite the pay raise and gaining an official job status.

Now Zell was gone, the next session of the UN began in two hours, and Miervaldis had to come up with a reason why she would be gone for the foreseeable future, but with the duration unspecified, with something that could be somewhat-easily parlayed into a missing person’s case in the even that she and her siblings never returned.

_Well, what the hell do I have to lose?_ Miervaldis asked himself. _Pavel will be here, since Zell’s kept him as an unofficial employee, Keld has been working with our parents for four years now, I don’t think **anything** could scare David out of this office, and Verena…_

Well, they’d just have to see about her.

He got up from Zell’s desk and took the two hallway turns to the waiting area, which served the Office in lieu of an actual meeting room. Pavel slipped in the door just as he entered the room.

“I’m going to need to talk to you when we’re done here,” Russia’s nephew told Schumacher.

“Lock the door,” Miervaldis ordered Verena. It wasn’t a strange command, since this was standard procedure for meetings, as they were using technically-public space; but with the subject matter he was about to reveal, it also made him feel a little better.

 “Our Director has gone and done something _incredibly_ stupid,” he told them all once they’d sat down. “In the normal course of things I wouldn’t tell anyone exactly _what_ it was, but-”

Miervaldis gave them all a long look.

“You work for the Office of Nations’ Affairs, and you should know the kind of thing you’ve signed up for.”

Pavel’s hand inched up.

“I couldn’t get a straight answer on this one. How bad, exactly-”

“The stakes aren’t quite as high as Christmas,” Miervaldis told him. “But the cover-up will be just as bad.”

_“Excuse me,”_ Verena cut in. _“Cover-up?”_

“You weren’t here for this, Verena, but- David, you remember the paid medical leave I took at the beginning of 2049?”

“Yes?”

“I was forced to take it so I could be monitored for after-effects of being trapped in a demon-infested house in Switzerland over Christmas, along with a significant portion of my cousins,” Miervaldis told them, hoping that if he stayed as matter-of-fact as possible, he’d actually be listened to. “I was potentially possessed, but the Vatican never could figure out exactly what happened to me.”

“Before anyone asks,” Pavel said. “I wasn’t there. I was in Russia.”

David looked between his boss and Pavel.

“You’re both shitting with us,” he said. “There’s not _really_ any such thing as demons.”

“Vasco Agresta would have to disagree with you,” Miervaldis told him. “But he can’t, because he’s _dead._ The demon tore him apart.”

“The Director said her cousin was killed in a bear attack,” David said.

“Cover-up,” Pavel told him. “People are more ready to handle mankilling bears than demons. And it’s a safety measure, besides- who would believe that there was _really_ a demon? All it would do would be to blow up into a whole fiasco. I don’t know if it would be worse if people _believed_ it and panicked, or if they _didn’t_ and decided the whole lot of us were alarmists or insane.”

“And I should believe this…?”

“Look, I can’t give you any proof of the demon, Keld,” Miervaldis told Schumacher. “It’s gone. The Vatican got rid of it. But you know what Nations can do. What are you supposed to call how long they live, or the connection they have with their people, or the way they don’t really die, or how they transport themselves-”

“I can call it science if I so please,” Schumacher maintained.

“Well, I can’t make you do otherwise,” Miervaldis conceded. “But I _can_ tell you it makes you look kind of like an idiot.”

Verena half-raised her hand.

“You don’t have to do that,” Miervaldis told her.

“I’d like permission to ward the office,” she said.

“I don’t think you need to worry about that,” Pavel said. “I got the impression that the Switzerland demon was the only one they’d ever dealt with, and most of the Nations are thousands of years old.”

“Mr. Galante said that the Vatican dealt with it,” Verena agreed. “But does that mean that there are only _Christian_ demons?”

“You know,” Miervaldis said. “That question never occurred to me; but I could have been profusely happy to have never considered it.”

“And even if there are just Christian demons,” Verena maintained. “Then it follows that there are other evil things of power. Traditionally, I believe vampires and werewolves were supposed to have something to do with the Devil. And then there’s always fairies.”

“Funny you should mention fairies,” Pavel said, with as straight a face as he could. “You weren’t around for this either, but for most of the 2048 session, England disappeared. He was off rescuing his granddaughter from being kidnapped by fairies.”

“What, is _that_ what you’re saying the Director got involved in?” David asked skeptically. _“Fairies?”_

“Maybe,” Miervaldis said. “They tried to explain it to me but it was not very clear. What I _do_ know is- Cassiel Navin is a sorcerer.”

_“No,”_ Verena said, scandalized. “Not _Cassiel **Navin.**_ ”

“That… that makes too much sense,” David said.

“The Director challenged him to do… something, I don’t think anyone knows exactly what,” Miervaldis continued. “But it had something to do with figuring out how the thing with her father and Dietrich Ehren happened. Cassiel came up with something that was probably not a solution, which was sending her and her brother and sister somewhere. I’m not really sure where- it may or may not be the same place as England went, that’s where the explanation got confusing and people started contradicting each other. I’m not entirely sure _anyone_ understands. But we don’t know if they’re ever coming back; or if they can come back, when they will. For reference, the time England was gone, for him, was two, maybe three days. For us, it was almost a full year. I’m told the time difference can fluctuate pretty badly.”

“So you’re saying that all three of them are essentially missing, and easy to presume dead?” Schumacher asked.

“If you want to be _fatalistic_ about it, yes.”

“How long are we expecting before Veneziano has a breakdown?”

“That’s actually part of why I’m up here,” Pavel said. “His brother asked me to get you and bring you down before the meeting so he can sort some things out with you. He’s going after them to try to get them back.”

* * *

“When I asked for a status update, General Beilschmidt,” Elke said. “I wasn’t expecting a full-blown _report_.”

Prussia just folded his arms and gave her a deeply disapproving look.

“You’re running a government,” he said. “Get used to having full typed reports. Packets centimeters thick. It happens, running a country is complicated business that eats more paper than should be reasonable.”

“Nobody could _possibly_ need all of this,” Dietrich said disdainfully, trying to cover for the fact that he had, in fact, read the entire report and taken extensive notes on it, complete with questions to ask their new IT department later in the day.

“Intelligence is the reason countries flourish,” Gilbert told him snippily. “I’m surprised _you_ manage to get by at all.”

“Argue somewhere else,” Armas told them tiredly. “That information is important to _me,_ Dietrich; _I_ need all of it. General Beilschmidt did a good job compiling all of it.”

“Don helped,” Gilbert added.

“You and I need to have a talk, young man,” Sofie told Dietrich firmly. “It’s time to get you to talk to your neighbors without that sort of tone.”

“I will when they _deserve_ it.”

“Playing politics by what you think people _‘deserve’_ causes wars,” she said severely. “And I will _not_ watch you provoke avoidable incidences. After the meeting, my office.”

“What about Austria and Switzerland, Fadri?” Elke asked, hoping to head off the line of discussion.

“The Austrians seem kind of pissed that their government has been ‘planning’ to merge them with us without informing them of anything,” Fadri reported. “But a lot of people have been talking about the benefits of merging.”

“The Swiss are just plain pissed off,” Armas said. “At everybody but us, actually. They’re pissed at Austria for convincing them to put more and more into Germany. They’re pissed at their government for ‘planning’ to merge everything. But they’re not angry at _us-_ they seem to think we’ve been taken in on it too. Victims of Austrian conniving.”

“Well, we _are,_ ” Elke said. “Just not in this exact situation.”

“I can’t tell if they’re primarily pissed about the idea of losing the Confederation, or worried,” Armas continued. “I think they’re probably mostly worried about it, and angry because they feel like they can’t do anything about it.”

“They _can’t,_ ” Prussia pointed out. “It’s done. Dietrich’s already got it.”

“Doesn’t matter to them,” Armas told him. “We’re going to have be nicer to the Swiss than to the Austrians, I think, to work them around. They _like_ being confederated. Maybe if we make the states like cantons-”

_“No,”_ Prussia said instantly. “No decentralization-”

“I’m just suggesting it right now,” Armas said, trying to cut off the argument before it got going. “They’re going to want to keep _something_ Swiss in any government we can come up with.”

“I think we should let Mr. Navin say his piece,” Elke ruled firmly.

“I just need to outfit a location somewhere suitable, get some people trained, and we’re good to go,” Cassiel said. “Everything else is done.”

The room stopped to look at him.

“I’m certain going to space is more complicated than that,” Armas began.

“It’s very complicated,” Cassiel agreed. “Lucky for you, I’ve been working on it for longer than you’ve wanted to hire me. All I have to do is transfer the ship Navin Industries almost has done to your ownership once the location is up and running.”

“I hadn’t heard that Navin Industries was doing _anything_ space related until you volunteered,” Sofie said, trying not to sound suspicious.

“It was going to be a surprise,” Cassiel said. “To everybody. Including the board.”

Fadri was in the middle of explaining that that _wasn’t_ how you ran a company when one of the GfL people who worked in Elke’s department walked in with a piece of paper, presumably a message.

“Thanks,” Elke started to reach for the paper. “Anika? Did I get that right?”

“Anika Abt,” the woman said. “And it’s not for you.”

She walked past Elke’s chair and over to Dietrich.

He barely had time to glance at the paper before she rammed the knife she’d been hiding up her sleeve into the soft area where his ribcage separated, straight into the diaphragm, and dragged the blade down until it stuck in his gut.

* * *

The swamp in front of Irkalla wasn’t humid, the way Heinrich had always thought swamps had to be. It was somewhat cool, actually, or at least the breeze blowing through it was.

Mayet had been gone for a while.

“Ereshkigal will really know what happened to our father?” Zell asked Kore.

“There’s no reason for her not to,” Kore said. “She knows about all the rest of them.”

“ _All-_ ” Zell started to say, astounded, but then the gate in the wall opened and Mayet reappeared.

“Ereshkigal has agreed to see you,” she said, appearing put out by this development. “Leave your horses- _not you._ ”

Nia stuck her foot back in the stirrup and Mayet switched from pointing the staff at her to gesturing them inside.

The area within the first wall wasn’t very big- about as wide a large parade street. The first few feet within the gate were bare pounded dirt, but after that, the area was flagged with gray stone. The area was shaded with olive, Lebanese cedar, gum Arabic, pomegranate, and sycamore fig trees. A man in Roman armor had his hands on his hips, scrutinizing the fruits, apparently trying to find one he liked.

On the ground, French Tamarisk grew in large bunches all around, the pinkish-purple flowers providing color that was much softer than the deep red of the pomegranates or the dark purple of the figs. There was a cushioned wooden bench, more like a fainting couch, placed under the largest cedar, with a matching chair set just off-angle next to it, the wood and carvings mostly obscured by the dress of the woman who sat in it, long and voluminous in skirts and loose in sleeves, collar draping around the shoulders. She was reading a book, gently curled hair getting in her face.

There was a woman on the couch too, her black hair tied back with a bright cloth and thick with braids; her body wrapped and draped all about in a large, long shawl that matched the pomegranates, a wide band of bold pattering, embroidery, and fringe following the edge of the cloth all the way until its visible end, flung forward over her shoulder. Her jewelry was gold, thick with delicate dangles and beads.

Power was heavy in the air, almost thick enough to be a sharp scent, incense-like, creating the feeling of humidity despite the still-cool weather.

“You were not wrong, Despoina,” Ereshkigal called to their guide from the couch. “This is a most interesting development, having children of Nations.”

She held both hands out, beckoning.

“Come, Arion- let me see.”

Arion picked up his feet and danced forward, parading in the shaded paved area for Ereshkigal, ignoring Nia’s only attempt to make him stop.

Ereshkigal rose from her seat when he had finished his impromptu dressage and placed one hand on his bridle, the other on Nia’s knee, and looked up at her.

Nia managed to look her directly in the eyes for only a second, and at her face only a bit longer. There was nothing behind her eyes- not in the way of a doll, or a child’s stuffed toy, or a taxidermied animal in a museum; but in the way of a perfectly dark night sky, of the cave they’d come through on Cassiel’s advice, or perhaps a mine shaft. Her face was perfectly fine, but the weight belying her expression was more than any Nia had ever seen- more than her father’s war memories, and more even than Iran, the eldest of the Nations, when she spoke of the days of the Mesopotamians.

The Roman man swiped a pomegranate off a tree and ambled over, slinging an arm around Zell’s shoulders, leaning into her.

“Pomegranate?” he asked, smiling like he expected seductive charm to be oozing out of his pores.

Zell batted the fruit away.

“I know better than that,” she told him. “Eat it yourself.”

The man shrugged and took a bite, withdrawing himself from Zell’s personal spaced.

“Just checking to make sure Felicianus educated you properly,” he said, dropping the sexual magnetism he had been trying to deploy. “He’s gotten into all sorts of trouble without me around. You’d be surprised what sort of things people will do, even respectable matrons. Why-”

“We don’t want to hear it, Marcus,” the woman in the chair said.

“It would reflect badly on me if she _had_ accepted what I was offering,” Marcus argued. “I _had_ to be certain he hadn’t passed any of his bad tendencies on- Felicianus grew up to be a _merchant_ and a _bigamist,_ and his son’s already an _actor-_ ”

_“Excuse me!”_ Heinrich butted in, outraged at the slight against his father’s character.

“I don’t care if you enjoy it, it’s not a respectable profession,” Marcus informed him primly. “The only thing worse than an actor is anact _ress._ Your sisters did much better for themselves. Government and the military are the real avenues of power and prestige. You should consider it, Heinrich- as it is, you’re lucky I love my grandson so much, that I’ll tolerate this.”

Zell stared at him, wide-eyed.

_“Rome,”_ she said.

“And tell your father when you see him again that he’s gone and done it all wrong,” the Roman Empire continued. “You take a foreign boy as your concubine and then drop him when you marry a respectable woman; not drop your wife for some barbarian _pathicus._ I know I raised him better than to go _cinaedus,_ I just can’t tell where I we-”

The clatter of hooves on pavement cut him short and he jumped sideways to avoid being trampled by Arion, who had become immediately responsive to Nia’s anger at her parents’ sexuality and gender expression being used as an insult.

She pulled Arion up and rounded on her great-grandfather, ready to charge again if he continued-

“Oh good,” Marcus said. “You _do_ have a sense of family honor and filial pride. He managed that much, at least.”

“ _Zio_ Vino was right,” Zell said. “You are a complete _asshole._ ”

* * *

Schumacher had thought that everything that could possibly surprise him about Nations, he’d already learned.

Clearly, he should stop assuming that. He was almost afraid to ask, but Hanna had been right about so many other things-

“Are there aliens, too?” he asked Miervaldis after the meeting had been formally adjourned. The question made the man pause for a moment.

“Not that I know of,” Miervaldis said. “But at this point? I wouldn’t be that surprised.”

“I’d _like_ to be surprised about it,” Pavel put in.

“It’s just, I-” Schumacher bit his lip, worrying. “Look, I should I have brought this up a _lot_ sooner, and I know that. Years ago sooner. But at first I didn’t think it was that serious and then it was just awkward, because I’d already gotten in so deep.”

“I don’t like this feeling of trepidation, Keld,” Miervaldis warned. “Just tell me.”

“My sister is a conspiracy theorist,” he finally admitted. “When I accepted this job, I called her up and asked what she knew about Nations, because it was a really strange job and she knows about some really strange things. I got an e-mail full of information that I _thought_ was a bunch of crackpot theories by anonymous people on the Internet, but the majority of it has turned out to be true. There were aliens in there, video of aliens, and with all this about magic and fairies…”

“You still have this e-mail, right?” Miervaldis asked sharply.

Schumacher showed the man his phone, open to his e-mail history.

“I’m about to forward it to you.”

“Good. When you go down, ask _them_ if there are aliens.”

Schumacher did, and under Pavel’s direction, the one he asked was Russia. With the man’s nephew- better to call him adopted son, really, what with Lithuania- and assistant backing him up, Russia actually answered.

“Once,” Ivan said. “In the seventies. We drove them away; and they left no trace behind them. How did you know?”

Schumacher came up with an explanation that involved finding an old picture of America and some B-list movie alien prop in Zell’s notes, which did not involve his sister in any way.

“Oh, Tony,” was Ivan’s answer. “I remember him. He was the one who told us about the aliens in the seventies. He called them the Pict. Apparently, they were very well known for their conquering. Tony died sometime after the Wall came down. The nineties, I think it was.”

Pavel and Schumacher thanked him and fled to speak to Romano, where they demanded an explanation about magic and fairies and _everything._

“I can’t help your brother if I don’t know what I’m dealing with,” Schumacher pointed out reasonably when Romano started getting aggravated.

So Romano ripped some paper off his notepad and drew a map.

“From Naples you can get to Orcus,” he said, jabbing the pen he used at a spot on the barely-defined land mass he’d drawn that jutted out the southwestern corner. “If you keep going straight from the entry point, you end up in this swamp they call Duat, and then in Duat is this island or something, Irkalla, and I have no idea what the fuck’s up with that. Iran might know. If you go the other way-”

He brought the pen up over an area represented by bumpy scribbles.

“-there’s hills and mountains and shit. Then the Jägerskov, where the Wild Hunt is, and following the coast dumps you in the Berge Öster och Väster. That’s got the dwarves underneath and the trolls on top. The part east of the mountains that isn’t the Jägerskov is the Silent Hills, where the Tylwyth Teg lives. That’s your fairies. Past that it’s the mountains and shit again, the rest of the range by Orcus, and when you go over it there’s this bit-”

A little outcropping in the west.

“Morningtown. That’s how most people get through- you know about England’s granddaughter? That’s the way he took. Past Morningtown it’s just ocean.”

He pointed to the water east of Orcus and Irkalla.

“That’s the Sea, and Póli Thálassas and Buyan are in there somewhere, no idea where. Then there’s some tiny shit up on the west side of the Berge, but fuck if I know what.”

Pavel took the map back up to Miervaldis.

* * *

One second Dietrich could breathe; the next, his midsection was on fire and he couldn’t.

Prussia was sitting on the other side of the table from him, and immediately tried to dive across the table, but couldn’t quite manage it. That, Dietrich saw from the side of his field of vision- he was focused on Anika, staring at her, trying to find a _why-_

The words he’d read registered and even as he heard the quiet _crunch_ of the woman biting down on something he was reaching for her mind, asking _why why **why**_ it made sense that Ludwig’s children would dislike him (be filled with outright bitter loathing at his very existence) but his other people **_his_** _children **WHY-**_

He got a ghost of whisper, a faint impression of _Nations’tyrannyfear-saveeveryone;_ and then his would-be assassin died of intentional cyanide poisoning, leaving Elke holding a corpse in a headlock.

Prussia was right in front of him, now; his general had pulled his chair back and was staring him in the face.

He still couldn’t breathe. Things were going swimmy, and spotted with dark patches, like little purple-black glow-edged holes in the universe.

“Dietrich, let it go,” Gilbert urged. “It’ll hear faster and cleaner if you die; just let it go. You’ll wake up- Cassiel!”

Pain flared in Dietrich’s stomach but he didn’t have the breath to scream. There was pressure for a moment, and an uncoiling of something thick and electric sank into him, and he could breathe.

He just stared at the ceiling for a long moment, frantically sucking breath, vaguely noticing that everyone in the room had backed quite far away from him, Prussia, and Cassiel Navin.

Prussia crossed his arms.

“I’m not fielding this one, Cass,” he informed his son, and grabbed the paper Anika had been carrying. “Explain what you just did yourself.”

* * *

Marcus leaned to the side so they could see him around Arion.

“I was having you on!” he told them. “I have no problem with your theater career and Feli picked a good man. He was obscenely young in comparison and Feli still made himself a bigamist, but he couldn’t have done it with a man I would have approved of more.”

“Our father is _not_ a bigamist!” Heinrich insisted.

Marcus looked at him sadly.

“Your innocence in this matter is endearing, despite being incredibly troubling in its implications.”

“This is why no one likes being around you, Marcus,” the woman with the book informed him. She’d stood up at some point and walked over. Now, she pointed with her book at the door set in the far wall, towards the interior of Irkalla. “Go; before Lavinia tries to run you over again.”

“She’s got the spirit of a proper cavalry general,” Rome protested as he started towards the door. “I’m _glad_ she tried to run me over. It proves her character.”

The woman waited until he’d disappeared behind the door to turn to them.

“That didn’t turn out quite to plan,” she apologized. “We were supposed to prove the truth of this place to you, but…”

“I don’t think he was interested in that,” Zell said. “And _you_ are?”

The woman smiled gently.

“Luitgard.”

“Brandenburg,” Nia pronounced, turning Arion so she was facing her siblings again. “I knew I knew your face.  _Onkel_ Gilbert keeps your portrait above the stairs.”

“I know. It’s very sweet of him, isn’t it? He even still insists the house is mine, sometimes.”

“How do you know?” Heinrich asked.

“We’re not _stuck_ here, isolated by these walls,” Brandenburg said, gesturing expansively at Irkalla. “Ask your father about Rome’s visits.”

“ _‘Here’_?” Nia asked worriedly. “You’re _Catholic,_ you-”

Luitgard’s face fell.

“ _‘Since the children have flesh and blood, he too shared in their humanity’_ ,” she quoted softly. “ _‘For surely it is not angels he helps, but Abraham’s descendants’_. Was not Noah a descendant of Abraham; and through him all of humanity? Nations are not human, Lavinia. We… it does not appear we have a place, with God.”

“But-” Heinrich protested. “ _Babbo_ sold his soul to a demon; he-”

“ _Demons,_ ” Mayet scoffed from her position just inside the gate. “Pathetic grasping deserters, trying to reclaim the power they once had.”

“Manipulative outcasts, too stubborn to ask forgiveness and too quick to blame,” Ereshkigal agreed, appearing before Arion suddenly. “Brandenburg is correct- have none of you truly ever considered this? The ones you call Nations are not human. Why would covenants made for human salvation have power over them? The final claim of their souls, the only one that may happen, is to _here._ ”

She indicated the walls of Irkalla, the interior that Rome had disappeared into.

“There is no one, demon or not, who can make it otherwise. This is how things are, and shall continue to be.”

“But-” Heinrich tried to continue.

“You had a question you would ask of me,” Ereshkigal interrupted. “No; Germany is not here. He has never come. Neither did the Holy Roman Empire, or the North German Confederation, or the German Confederation. One day, perhaps, the German Lands may, should nothing interfere.”

_“Why?”_ Nia exploded.

Ereshkigal made a flippant little shrug.

“Power, I presume. A pointless, futile plot to steal away the inherent power of a Nation for use by another. I do not truly know why-”

She looked at Nia sharply, the void of her eyes dragging all attention to her, a gravitational pull that was too much to resist.

“-but I can put you on the path to _who._ ”

There was silence for a moment, and then:

“You know who destroyed _Vati_?” Heinrich asked.

“You know who and you haven’t _done_ anything!” Nia exclaimed, enraged.

“My duty is not to _avenge,_ not to shepherd or protect those beyond my walls!” Ereshkigal snapped. “I am to keep the dead here, to guard my borders and keep my knowledge; and to do what is asked of me! I have a singular care in what occurs beyond Duat, which is _not_ what becomes of Nations before they come to my country! So I ask of you, Sonnehilde Lavinia Costa Beilschmidt, shall _you_ take it as _your_ duty to right the wrongs against the way of things?”

“Since no one else cares enough to enforce it,” Nia snarled back, sitting up straighter on Arion, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. “I _shall!_ ”

“Then, when in your travels you come to the tree the branch you took as safe passage to Kore Despoina, press it again to the trunk to claim what it can give you,” Ereshkigal ordered; and turned from them. “Kore Despoina will show you the way to Póli Thálassas-”

“Amphitrite Kataiis is in Kitezh on Buyan, visiting with Kaschei Perun,” Kore told her.

“-to Buyan, then. Mayet, send Kem-Essuru ahead of them with the news.”

Mayet whistled through her teeth and a black hawk dove from the sky to her arm. She stroked the feathers around its beak delicately, with a fingertip.

“Come,” Kore told the Beilschmidt children. “That was a dismissal. If you go now, you might get there in time for dinner.”

Heinrich stopped and turned a few paces into leaving to address Luitgard a final time.

“ _Babbo_ ’s not _really_ a bigamist, is he?”

“You think _il Sponsalizio del Mare_ is just a bit of traditional pageantry for Ƚa Sènsa, don’t you?” she said. “In how many times in places have people said the sea is a woman, that the spirits of stream and spring, of river and rain, are female? In how many have there been a Lady of the Lake? The woman behind it all is Amphitrite Kataiis, Empress of Póli Thálassas and the Queen of All Waters, and you must ask her for the name of the one who destroyed your father.”

* * *

Miervaldis had stared at the attachments in Schumacher’s forwarded e-mail for a long, long time. He kept staring at them past the time that Pavel dropped the map off, barely acknowledging the man when he came into his office in the first place.

Eventually, he opened a free e-mail service, created a new account with information that bore zero relation to his life, and e-mailed Hanna Schumacher.

_‘I heard you were the person to ask about Nations,’_ he wrote. _‘What do you know about them?’_

He managed to force himself to do work until he got a reply e-mail.

_‘Quite a lot, actually,’_ said the answer. _‘But it’s easier to do this on the forum, where everybody can contribute. Come sign up.’_

He clicked through the link and then spent time staring at the forum, scrolling and clicking until, forty-five minutes later, he’d gotten through ninety-something pages in a number of different threads. There wasn’t anything particularly sensitive that he could see, nothing at all like what he’d found in the e-mail, which was strange.

Miervaldis _had_ discovered that there was a separate, locked forum that a number of regular users had access to. That could be worthwhile, but-

Deception wasn’t something he was particularly good at. He’d just have to keep digging.

In a moment of inspiration, he tried searching _‘United Nations’_ to see what came up. Three pages in he found someone referencing a different post that said something about the Office of Nation’s Affairs. Miervaldis clicked through menus until he got to the archive, and then scrolled back and back and back…

He found the post, an old one, from 2049, which was a photograph of Zell’s business card. The name of the person who posted it brought him up short.

Miervaldis got up from his desk and took the walk to David’s space in the front room.

“I want you to go through this site,” he told him, writing down the URL for him. “And pull whatever phone records we have. See who’s called asking about Nations, around and after January 2049.”

“Uh- okay,” David said.

Miervaldis bypassed his own office for the moment to open Zell’s and go through the little notebook she kept contact information in, flipping to the _‘L’_ section to look up a phone number.

Then he called Teodozja Łukasiewicz.

* * *

If there had been another administration, it would have taken perhaps half a day to move the investigation team from Berlin to Stuttgart.

But not-quite-yet-the-German-Lands had appointed a Nation as the general of their army, and Prussia had, with Ladonia, secured himself as head of the Intelligence Service as well. So all he had to do was walk up to Berlin for a few minutes, grab some people, and bring them back to investigate Anika Abt’s apartment. They beat the police by a good few minutes.

The police officers had come prepared to pick the lock, but Kasimir Breisacher, one of the Intelligence Service people Prussia had purposefully hired back, was finishing just as they arrived.

When they tried to open it, the lock was engaged.

Kasimir sat back and looked at it, puzzled, then said: “It wasn’t locked before?”

“Move,” Prussia ordered, and just smashed the door in. The police and Intelligence agents started spread out and canvass the apartment; while the Police Senior Inspector who’d come along started to ask questions about the incident with Anika Abt. When he’d finished explaining, Gilbert showed the Inspector the paper Anika had handed Dietrich.

“ _‘We wouldn’t stand having a Nazi then and we won’t now’_?” the Inspector asked, quoting the paper.“ _‘You should have watched the fire’_?”

“I have no idea what it’s talking about either,” Gilbert told her. “Abt went after Germanenlanden, who is _definitely_ not a Nazi. It would make sense if she’d tried for Elke Bastian- people have tried to call _her_ a Nazi often enough- but she specifically bypassed her.”

“Sir!” Anastasie Bordelon, one of the Intelligence agents, called.

Gilbert and the Inspector followed her voice to the bedroom.  

“There’s only one thing missing,” Kasimir told them. “No computer. There’s a case for a laptop, spare cords, and book of account passwords, but no laptop.”

“Nothing looks suspicious in the websites she had accounts for,” Anastasie pronounced. She had her phone out, a web browser open and looking into websites she didn’t recognize. “It doesn’t look like she did a lot- it’s banking and shopping sites. No e-mail, but most people have that information memorized anyway.”

“So without the computer she used,” Gilbert said. “We have no idea where her correspondence was.”

“Not necessarily,” the Inspector told him. “If you can find her service bills, she might have used an account that came with her Internet provider.”

Anastasie showed Prussia the book, pointing at a specific entry.

“This is the only one I can’t figure out,” she said. “ _‘Hanna’s Forum’_ is just too generic. I don’t know if it’s a title of a site or the name of a friend who had an account on some site that Abt got into.”

“She also had a lot of GfL literature,” Kasimir added. When Gilbert gave him a look that clearly showed how extremely unimpressed he was by this information, he preempted the coming _‘of **course** she did, she was a party member’_ by continuing with: “It wouldn’t mean anything, but it’s all by the same person. Anthemion?”  

Prussia went to inspect the boxes the Intelligence Service agents had pulled out from the closet.

“Never heard of them,” he said. “Has to be a penname. I’ll ask Elke.”

* * *

“Did you know about this?” was the first thing Sofie von Preuβen asked him when he came to her office, as asked, rather later than anyone had expected. The entire office had been in an uproar, and things only continued to happen because Armas and Prussia had both agreed that halting everything would make them look weak and easily shaken.

“About what?” Dietrich countered.

Sofie waved a hand.

“Cassiel. Magic.”

“I knew it existed,” Dietrich told her. “And I know Cassiel could do some. But I really don’t know anything about it. You’d have to ask General Beilschmidt.”

“I-” Sofie stopped herself and exhaled heavily, not exactly a sigh, and rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand. “No. There was a reason I asked you to come, and this isn’t-”

Dietrich snuck one of the little chocolates she had in the candy dish off her desk while she mentally gathered herself. He wanted answers about what had happened, too- the paper, for one; and about magic. If they were going to be working with Cassiel, he wanted to know _exactly_ what the man could do.

And, if his extrapolation from what he knew about England and Norway was right- what _he_ could do.

Not that he was going to ask Prussia about what magical capabilities Nations possessed.

“The first reason I wanted to see you is actually Liechtenstein,” Sofie said. “She asked me, when I went to visit her last, if _she_ was one of the German Lands.”

Dietrich had to think about that, poking and fumbling about in his sense of the world, distractedly taking another chocolate.

“No,” he said eventually. “Not Liechtenstein. Is that going to be a problem?”

“It’s going to pose an interesting complication,” Sofie told him grimly, and quickly wrote out a note to stick to Armas’s computer later on. “Now to what I said we needed to talk about.”

“I’m not-” Dietrich started to say around some chocolate.

“You’re not wandering the world anonymously any longer,” Sofie said sharply, and held the chocolate dish out of his reach. “The things you say and how you say them have _consequences_ beyond your immediate vicinity and time. If you say the wrong thing in a diplomatic situation, you _will_ be, at the best, inconveniencing quite a lot of people. At the worst, you’ve just caused a serious detrimental impact on people’s lives. And not always immediately- maybe you piss off the people you need to call on for aid, later, and they tear it out of you. You _cannot_ be dismissive of consequences in this business, Dietrich!”

“You think I don’t know that?” he snapped back. “The _‘wandering the world’_ you were talking about- that wasn’t some sort of sightseeing tour. I _worked,_ unskilled labor and service jobs. I learned the language from the locals. Prussia explained the politics and policy behind what we saw. _Everything_ was a teachable moment for him. I’ve seen what happens to the people when government screws up.”

“Then convince me,” Sofie challenged, and slid a piece of paper and pen to him. “Tell me who you’ll be willing to talk to _civilly,_ without taking verbal pot-shots at them.”

The list was harder than he’d thought. The first few names came easily- China, Israel, Iran, and Cuba. After that…

“I know your problem is people who knew Ludwig,” Sofie said, inching the chocolate dish closer. “Pick some people who knew him better.”

Dietrich scowled and looked deliberately from the chocolate dish to her face.

“I’m not a _child,_ ” he said. “Stop trying to bribe me.”

“Then don’t act like a child when you’re talking to your colleagues,” she told him. “ _Names,_ Dietrich.”

After some thought, Dietrich added Liechtenstein. Maybe she’d be so happy she wasn’t a part of him that she’d pay attention to _him._ Russia’s name went down next, then Japan’s; and in the interest of Sofie’s earlier comment about neighbors added Poland, on the grounds that he probably had the most reason of Ludwig’s former neighbors to be happy that he was dead.

The pen hovered uncertainly over the paper for a moment, while he thought. At the Olympics reception, it had worked; and he knew that there would be no danger of seeing the wrong person. Certainly they were old enough, down there, to know about magic- and he had other questions he wanted to ask. More personal ones, that he didn’t trust anyone still looking for Ludwig with.

From what he’d heard, there was no danger of idealization _here._

He scrawled _‘Italia Romano’_ down quickly and grabbed a chocolate as soon as Sofie replaced the dish, glaring half-heartedly at her as he crumpled up the wrapper.

Sofie read the list, pursed her lips thoughtfully at the last name, and told him she’d start trying to get something scheduled.

* * *

Teodozja was halfway to her next meeting with Armas Väinämöinen when she got the phone call. She didn’t recognize the number, and answered the call warily, ready to shut down telemarketers.

“ _Hallo_?”

The answering voice was in decent Polish, which she hadn’t been expecting.

“Ms. Łukasiewicz?”

“Yes?”

This should be interesting.

“This is Miervaldis Galante from the UN Office of Nations’ Affairs. I’m Latvia and Montenegro’s son. I’m calling to ask you about an Internet forum you visited about four years ago? It was a forum for Nation enthusiasts, and you posted Director Beilschmidt’s business card-”

“Oh no was that classified information?” Teodozja asked quickly. “I’m really really sorry if it was, I didn’t know-”

“It’s okay, it’s not classified,” the man reassured her. “I’m just… conducting an informal investigation, because we’ve received some worrying information about the site. I just want to know how and why you got involved.”

“It- it was after I’d found out my daughter’s father was Mr. Łukasiewicz’s grandson,” she told him. The bus pulled into her stop, and she got off. “I went to talk to his mother, and she said some- some really _mean_ things about what Nations were like, and how they related to people, and I didn’t really feel comfortable asking Mr. Łukasiewicz about it, so I looked around on the Internet and found the forum and made an account to ask questions because they seemed to know what they were talking about.”

She showed her ID card to the receptionist, who made a cursory check before telling her to keep going.

“They were only a little helpful,” she continued. “I learned everything they said and a lot more just by living with him for a little bit.”

“Do you still have your account information?” Miervaldis asked.

“Yes,” Teodozja told him, stopping outside Armas’s door. “Do you want it? I’d have to look it up again.”

“I might ask you for it later,” Miervaldis told her. “Thank you, Ms. Łukasiewicz. Have a nice day.”

“You too,” she replied, and went into the office after he’d hung up.

She immediately stopped and spent a moment staring.

“You look _horrible,_ Armas!” Teodozja said. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I-”

He stopped and tried to compose himself better.

“I just- we were in a meeting, and one of our employees turned up with a knife and tried to kill Dietrich and then killed _herself_ so we couldn’t question her, and Cass was there and he did his thing to heal Dietrich so then General Beilschmidt made him explain magic to everyone; and then _I_ had to explain his explanation, which I’m not sure did any good, and-”

Armas sighed.

“It’s just been a really terrible day.”

“I… I have extra money,” Teodozja said. “You could get away for a little bit and we could get coffee? And those little cake things. It’s about lunchtime.”

“That sounds nice,” Armas admitted. “Okay. But I don’t want to talk business over lunch, so I’m going to ask you the only thing I really care about right now- we’re trying to get Dietrich to interact with the rest of Europe without causing an incident, and one of the people he told Sofie he’d be willing to talk civilly with is Poland. Do you think you could-?”

“I’ll see what I can set up,” Teodozja promised; and Armas smiled, relieved.

“Thanks,” he said, opening the door for her. “So… tell me about your classes?”

* * *

Gianluca had thought long and hard about how to best phrase his progress report to Alfeo Bottegante, but finally had to settle for: “Nothing has been a complete loss, sir.”

The Camorra boss looked ready to explode at that, so he quickly tried to clarify.

“We’re mostly certain that Agresta isn’t in New York or Madrid. We definitely know he isn’t in Venice. But we think-”

“You think _what?_ ” Bottegante demanded, interrupting him.

“-he has his sister here in Naples,” Gianluca continued. “It would make sense that she would have his contact information.”

“So break into the house and take it!”

“I was thinking more along the lines of stealing her phone,” Gianluca told him, keeping his tone as mild and inoffensive as possible. “It’s less alarming for the victim and poses less risk to us. Sir.”

Bottegante scowled, but ended up agreeing.

“Fine- do it soon,” he ordered. “What about the latest job for Hanna Schumacher?”

“I broke into her apartment after she left for work for the day, so I could kill her when she came back,” Gianluca said carefully. “But I was a day too late-”

“Too _late?_ ”

“The police showed up and I had to leave _very_ quickly,” Gianluca explained. “I did manage to take her computer, so they couldn’t get a look at her Internet habits or history. I put it with the others in the warehouse.”

_“Too **late?** ”_

“I asked around some people we know after I got away. Turns out Anika Abt chose that day to act out- she stabbed Germanenlanden and killed herself. It made the news, but they haven’t asked for public assistance in investigating or released many details. I told Hanna Schumacher that I made sure nothing could be traced to her, so our information line is still intact.”

“You should have dropped her,” Bottegante told him. “We have what we need from her- enough to get back at Italia Romano even if we can’t find his son. You should have disposed of her.”

“And what if I had,” Gianluca said. “But then _her_ contacts turned up Agresta’s location?”

Bottegante went back to scowling, but didn’t try to argue with his man’s logic.

-

“Really? _All_ of it was by Anthemion?”

Prussia inclined his head towards the box of GfL literature he’d brought over from Anika Abt’s apartment.

“Who are they?” he demanded.

Elke motioned to her visitor’s chair, but Gilbert just spread his legs enough to settle into parade rest and remained firmly standing.

“Anthemion was the penname of Xaver Kraus,” Elke told him. “He was one of the original founders of the GfL.”

“Then how come I’ve never met him?”

“It happened like this,” Elke began. “My brother Manfried and I were always upset about how German nationalism had been tarnished, and about the state of things in the German-speaking countries generally. In college, we found other people who thought like us. Fadri. A woman called Ute Kassmeyer. A Scotsman I got engaged to, Brian Bruce, who’d always wanted to immigrate here. Xaver Kraus. We started small- Xaver was our pamphleteer. He was really into writing political tracts, so we let him handle most of that. Our group caught on on campus and in the liberal hotspots in Stuttgart, and eventually the Neo-Nazis heard about us. They already didn’t like Manfried, because he was trans, so they used what we thought as an excuse to kill him.”

“I’m sorry,” Gilbert said.

Elke shrugged a little, and kept talking.

“The plan had been that we’d all graduate and relocate to Berlin to see what sort of major political traction we could get. But after Manfried was killed I didn’t want to leave Stuttgart. It felt like, if I left, that I’d be running away. Ute had been engaged to him, and she wasn’t as into the serious organizing as the rest of us had been, so she got into the management of the café we always went to, and after a year or two the original owners retired and gave it to her. Brian was engaged to me, so _he_ didn’t leave, just worked at the café with Ute and helped out at the political commune where I had my job when it was the GfL’s turn to use the space. But Xaver didn’t have personal ties like that holding him in Stuttgart, so he went on ahead to Berlin. He got a job in the Reichstag- he was there when it blew up.”

“But you were in Berlin months _before_ that happened,” Gilbert reminded her. “Why didn’t he-”

“I don’t really know,” Elke told him. “Fadri and I were always so busy and he had a job at the Reichstag so I think we just assumed _he_ was too busy to do much, too. Plus, we figured he was, uh, a foot in the door with the establishment, so we didn’t press too hard. But I’m not the one he really kept in contact with- he was one of Ute’s friends first, which is how he got involved with us. She’d probably know why he didn’t leave his job once we got big and came to Berlin.”    

“Where can I find her?”

* * *

Romano knew where the entrance to Orcus was, out by Lake Avernus. He knew exactly where to find the golden branch that would grant him safe passage into the unearthly country; and, if it’s lady acceded, in all the lands of Honalee.

But he was a Nation, and not human, and did not need the long, slow roads. To walk the breadth of his country it was a pull, crinkling the rug of the terrain beneath his feet so he set foot where he wanted on the pattern; but Honalee was a twist, a turn and a pull together, drawing away a curtain from a porch door and stepping through the glass.

The rusting ruin of the iron tower was exactly as he remembered it, and the horses whickered at him as he walked through their fields, flicking their tails and nudging him, occasionally, asking for a treat from his basket. He pushed them away gently, after petting their noses a moment.

The low cottage was just as unchanged by time, and he stopped on the intersection outside the door.

“Kore Despoina,” he said loudly; and waited.

Eventually there was the _thun-thun_ of hooves on the dirt road coming up from the Sea shore, away across the fields and down the cliffs.

“Neapolis,” Kore greeted, and dismounted. “I was wondering if I would see you.”

He offered his basket, full of vegetables from his garden and some of wine he made from his small vineyard, out on a plot far from his city.

“What will this buy me, Despoina?”

She took the basket from him and balanced it against her hip.

“Questions, Neapolis. How many depends on what you ask.”

She gestured for him to come into her house, and as he set foot on the topmost of the few stone steps that led to the floor of the cottage, he began to speak.

“I am looking for my brother’s children, three humans, two women and man-”

“You would call them human?” Kore asked, pouring them some wine from the bottle. The basket of vegetables was on the floor by her stove. “How peculiar. Yes, I saw them. They came through. I was… surprised, that Venice had children. I had not thought that Nations had children, but as the familiar term for their people.”

Lovino immediately seized upon the opportunity to offer information, and, in the process, have Kore owe him more than what she did from just the vegetables and wine.

“It was a recent development,” he explained as Kore handed him his cup of wine and saluted him with it, formally accepting him as a guest. “Completely unexpected and unexplained. I doubt it’ll happen again.”

“A pity,” Kore said. “I am certain their father’s wife would want at least one child of her own. Amphitrite Kataiis could make use of an heir to Póli Thálassas.”

“ _Ex-_ wife,” Lovino corrected.

“No,” Kore said. “His wife. They are still married. If they had stopped being married, they would have had to announce it, and we all would have heard. If they had stopped being married, Amphitrite would not still collect the golden ring every year, and she would not still refer to Venice as her husband.”

Lovino had had his mouth open to say something, but this-

_This-_

_“Fucking **hell,** ” _he swore, his gut twisting in dread around the sudden feeling of a chunk of ice at his core. “We thought that it was all… just _ceremonial,_ or that they’d had something and broken it off, and that the ceremony continued because it was _traditional-_ does she _know_ that he got married to someone else? That he has _kids?_ ”

“I have no idea,” Kore said. “But if she doesn’t, she will find out soon. Ereshkigal told Lavinia that Amphitrite could tell her the name of the one responsible for Germany.”

_No, no, **no-**_ there were _so_ many things wrong with that sentence-

_What the **hell** were you **thinking,** Feliciano?_ he mentally screamed at his brother. **_Amphitrite?_** _You decided to be unfaithful to the **Sea?** You **live** in the fucking water, you **idiot!** You love Ludwig; but he’s not worth **that!**_

Somehow, he managed not to drop his cup, or choke on his wine.

“They went to see _Ereshkigal?_ ” he managed to say, in a sort of horrified whisper. “They’re going to see _Amphitrite?_ ”

“They asked about Germany, so I took them to Ereshkigal,” Kore told him. “Ereshkigal asked Lavinia if she would take up the duty to fix what went wrong, and she agreed. So, they go to fulfill the promise.”

Lovino had to put the cup down.

“Thank you, Kore Despoina,” he said, keeping the tremor in voice down. “For your information and your hospitality. But I must-”

“You cannot go to the Jagdsprinz to argue the terms of their agreement,” she cut him off. “There is no Jagdsprinz. Not since the Erlkönig was killed. And why would the Jagdsprinz side with anyone against Ereshkigal?”

“The Jagdsprinz doesn’t take sides arbitrarily,” Romano countered. “Nia agreed without fully knowing what the terms were- that voids her responsibility to the contract. None of them had _any **idea** _ what they were doing. That- this _has_ to constitute fraud. Manipulation. Coercion. And if there _isn’t_ a Jagdsprinz-”

He took a deep breath.

“A Congress can be called,” he said. “In the absence of a Jagdsprinz, to have them agree that the agreement was made in false faith. Ereshkigal can’t do anything about _that._ Not without someone acting in her interests outside Irkalla, and without a Jagdsprinz, no one would sacrifice their own interests for that.”

“You cannot call a Congress,” she reminded him. “You are King Neapolis, not of any land or people here.”

“Feliciano- he would,” Lovino said firmly. “He could ask Amphitrite, and for his children? He’d give whatever she asked. He’d come to Póli Thálassas and never leave, if that was what it took. But a Congress _could_ be called. Ereshkigal’s _‘duty’_ would come to nothing.”

“I am not certain that would be so,” Kore disagreed. “But it is pointless to argue. And you will find no help going to any of the other Kings and Queens; not with what Ereshkigal has given Lavinia to do. None of us will let her rescind, not for this. _She_ will not rescind, not with what she can gain.”

“She won’t gain _anything!_ ” Lovino exclaimed, throwing up his hands and starting to pace furiously, trying to push away his fear. “This is _exactly_ the sort of fucking thing I came here to _do;_ to catch them _before_ they agreed to something we couldn’t get them out of-”

“She gains vengeance,” Kore pointed out. “For her father. Ereshkigal would never have offered if she hadn’t been certain that she had something to offer that would never be refused, unto and including death.”

Lovino whirled on her.

_“Why the **fuck** does **Ereshkigal** care so much! What could you all **possibly** have to gain!”_

Kore put her cup down on the table, pointedly.

“I will tell you, Neapolis,” she said. “And it will be your last answer. I will tell you, and you will go back to your home.”

Lovino took a few deep breaths, trying to compose himself.

“Fine,” he said after a few moments, knowing he had no other options. “I accept.”

“ _We_ care,” Kore Despoina told Romano. “ _Ereshkigal_ cares, because the one who murdered the Erlkönig is the same as the one who destroyed Germany. Lavinia and her siblings _will_ pay for the information they are given, for the help they get- because what they are given will be things to destroy it. Which they _will_ do, which _Lavinia_ will do, because Mayet and Ereshkigal are in the business of the souls of people, and know that it is not in character to stop until either she is dead or her father’s destroyer is. And if she dies doing it-”

She gave a half-hearted shrug.

“Well, then the question of payment becomes moot.”

* * *

It was easier to pretend that the path to Kitezh on Buyan was not over water, to stare off at the horizon.

It was easier to pretend that their horses were not walking on the ocean, to focus on the sea breeze and imagine sand and rock.

It was Heinrich who spoke first.

“How are we going to tell _Babbo_ that the demon didn’t matter?”

“What are we going to tell _Zio_ Cris?” Zell replied. “He… he’s the _Vatican._ ”

“Do you think I want to go to Israel and tell _her_?” Heinrich asked.

There was silence for a while more; and then again, Germany’s son.

“Nia, I’m worried about that horse,” he said. “They seemed very… intense about the horse. I’m pretty sure the horse _means_ something; and I don’t like that I don’t know what.”

“Are you certain agreeing to Ereshkigal about duty was a good idea?” Zell asked. “Did you even think about it first?”

Nia kept silent, and nudged Arion into going faster, until she was cantering away over the waves, the dark form of the island of Buyan locked as her heading.


	26. 2052: October

Guiditta Agresta Karpusi’s phone was out of her sight for exactly eight minutes one afternoon, when she got up from her seat in the café to use the toilet, leaving her bag under the table, under guard by her friend.

All Gianluca had to do was turn his chair from his table to theirs, start to flirt with the friend, and tip Guiditta’s bag over, toe the phone out, and hide it under his shoe. He smiled quickly at Guiditta when she came back, more of an acknowledgment that there was another woman in the area than an invitation to talk, before making a final remark to the friend.

Guiditta grabbed her bag from under the table without really looking, and she and her friend left. Gianluca waited some seconds before reaching down and pulling the phone out from under his foot, clicking it on, and opening the contacts.

He quickly copied down the information under ‘Nico’, though at this point, it was probably extraneous. He’d heard from listening in on Guiditta’s conversation that her brother, presumably emboldened by the lack of Camorra revenge for disappearing with Bottegante’s daughter, was quietly coming back to the city to stay with his sister and her husband for a few days at the beginning of November.

And he was bringing his wife.

Gianluca got up and walked quickly out of the café, ran a little to catch up with Guiditta and her friend, and told them a lie about finding the phone she’d dropped.

* * *

There was never _really_ an off-season for tourists in Venice, but October was one of the less popular months.

Currently, Feliciano was staring across the water to San Giorgio Maggiore. The ferries to Croatia blocked the view a bit, but it wasn’t as though he hadn’t been seeing San Giorgio for centuries. He could sketch it from memory.

“You should make up with him, Erzsébet.”

A lot of things had happened to the Doge’s Palace over the years, but one thing hadn’t changed- he still lived there. Napoleon had dissolved the Republic, but hadn’t kicked him out of his apartments. Austria had only forced him to live in Vienna, never give up the rooms he had in the Palace. Even with the advent of the unified Italian state and through the conversion of the Palace into a museum, no one had told him to leave. So he kept on in his rooms adjourning the Doge’s apartment, wandering the museum areas during the day if the fancy struck him, or the desire to leave off work he’d brought home; or, more often, sitting the stillness of the night, looking at the rooms, bare but for paintings and decorations, and remembering what they had once looked like in the dim gray of the city lights through the windows.

He was allowed to wander, and have guests over. People knew better than to think that he’d do anything to damage the building or the paintings and artifacts inside it. So, he had taken Hungary to the balcony overlooking the Mola and the water. They were leaning on the railing, politely ignored by tour guides and given occasional curious glances by tourists.

She gave him a brief look of disgust before turning her attention back to the water.

“I won’t do any such thing,” she declared.

“ _Please,_ Erzsébet,” Feliciano continued. “You don’t know when he’ll go. Don’t let him go while you’re still fighting. I-”

He remembered how impressed Ludwig had always been with the Palace, and how he’d listened for hours as Feliciano went on about his memories of the rooms and the murals and the hallways. They’d brought their children here, a few times, but they hadn’t really _lived_ here- they hadn’t thought of it as much of a place to raise a family. When they were older, after their parents had lost their hold on their humanity, each of them had spent at least one summer living out of the Palace.

Heinrich had moved in, after the Fire, and then Adriana had as well, after they’d married. But three adults had been too much for the space, and Heinrich had found them a new place- still in San Marco, to try and please his father, across the Grand Canal from Università Ca' Foscari- to live and raise their children in.

Feliciano had returned to his rooms in the Palace after Heinrich had disappeared. Adriana and the children still lived there, and he continued to pay the rent, and visited for some hours every Saturday- but he couldn’t live there.

Ludwig was gone- and now, almost four years later to the day, their children.

“You don’t want that regret,” he told Hungary quietly. “Please, don’t let that happen.”

“Holy Rome was important to me too, Veneziano,” Hungary said. “I’m not ready to forgive Roderich yet.”

“Don’t leave it too long,” Feliciano begged.

“I can’t _believe_ what he and Sebastian are trying to do,” Erzsébet continued. “I get not wanting to- _die;_ but trying to tear his country out from under him like that-!”

The indignity apparently didn’t lend itself to words, and Hungary fell silent for a moment, and glared at the church tower on San Giorgio.

“We’re supposed to be better than that now,” she said eventually. “We’re not supposed to be fighting over bits of Europe any longer. They could have just tried to stir up their own nationalism- let Dietrich keep Germany. But trying to just _take it-_ that’s not supposed to be how it works.”

“Many things do not work as they are supposed to any longer, Erzsébet,” the Vatican said.

Hungary and Veneziano turned, surprised. He hadn’t said a thing about coming-

“Did Lovino-” Feliciano started to ask, jumping to the most logical, though terrifying, conclusion.

“He’s back,” Cristoforo confirmed. “He said that, by the time he arrived, they had been to see Ereshkigal, whom Nia has entered a contract with, and then gone again to meet Amphitrite Kataiis.”

Feliciano felt the bottom of his stomach plummet away.

“They’re going to see Amphitrite,” he managed to say quaveringly.

 _“Additionally,”_ Cristoforo continued, rather pointedly. “Lovino informed me that Kore Despoina told him that there would be no recourse for the contract, since the Jagdsprinz has been murdered, and Nia is now in the business of exacting revenge for that on behalf of the rest of the Kings of Honalee.”

 _“What,”_ Hungary said.

“Interestingly enough, vengeance for the Jagdsprinz and vengeance for Ludwig, which Lovino has told me Despoina told him that Ereshkigal was utterly certain Nia would attain at a cost up to and including her life, is exactly the same thing; as whatever has ultimately been causing us to lose the Nations of a unified German people is also responsible for the murder of the Jagdsprinz.”

Cristoforo looked at Erzsebet.

“I would be very grateful if you could spread this information about. I would myself, Lovino being occupied trying to catch up to the work he’s missed, but, if you’ll excuse us-”

He turned his eyes to Feliciano.

“My brother and I,” the Vatican said forebodingly. “Need to have a discussion about his civic traditions.”

* * *

The phone had gotten perhaps halfway through its first ring when the other end of the line picked up. Miervaldis was surprised- he hadn’t thought Rémy would pick up a call from his absentee wife’s office so quickly.

“Hello?”

“It’s Miervaldis, Rémy.”

“Oh. I-”

There was a moment of quiet, and then Rémy answered.

“I’ve been waiting for someone from the family to call,” he said. “About Zell. Have you-”

“Romano sent me an angry text, so he’s back,” Miervaldis told him. “He implied something about Veneziano’s life choices that I’m pretty unclear on, but he did say they got- wherever it is all right. They got into some sort of thing, though, I think; that wasn’t really clear either. You’d have to ask him.”

He could _hear_ Rémy deflate on the other end of the line.

“If I hear anything more concrete I’ll tell you,” he promised.

“Thanks,” Rémy said. “But I wish they’d texted _me,_ too.”

“How are you doing?” Miervaldis asked after a few moments of uncomfortable silence, because it seemed rude to get to his actual business given the topic the conversation had started on.

“I haven’t even told Louis,” Rémy said heavily. “We’d gotten him used to the idea that Zell was going to be gone for a significant portion of the year from now on, but- I can’t tell him this. Not when he can still just think that she’s in New York, too busy to talk to us. I-”

The sort-of-laugh sound was a release of tension, and bore no resemblance to any positive emotions.

“I can’t believe she _did_ this to us, Miervaldis. I spent practically all my teenage years in her house and I _know_ how important Germany was to her- to all of them- but…  I don’t see how that works out to outright abandoning us to- to try and _fix_ this, or whatever they’re doing. If she had _said_ something about it, given some warning, it would have been-”

“Better?” Miervaldis suggested.

“Not exactly better,” Rémy said. “I still wouldn’t want her to go. I’d try to convince her not to. I’d tell her all the reasons why it was a bad idea and call Prussia and Romano and the Vatican and _everyone_ to tell her not to do it. I’d tell her we were married and she had a duty to me and Louis, to be a family with the people she still has. Germany is dead, and I don’t like that any more than she does, but that doesn’t mean she should leave the people still alive to chase after the dead ones.”

“Maybe she thought she could get him back,” Miervaldis suggested.

“Dead is dead,” Rémy said. “You know that.”

“Are we sure?” Miervaldis countered. “Nations don’t stay dead, not while their bodies are still around. Maybe-”

“Even if she did find her father, and he could come back,” Rémy interrupted. “Dietrich is here now. I know I don’t know everything about my father-in-law, but I can’t imagine him coming back if it means killing someone else. And I’d like to think Zell wouldn’t chose that, either.”

“You’re not sure?”

“Zell and her siblings and I are probably the closest of all of us,” Rémy reminded him. “Maybe Ásdís and Øystein are closer- anyway. Heinrich, I know he wouldn’t do it. Never. That’s just not how he is. Zell, I know she’d do a lot for her father. She’d do a lot for _any_ Nation, at that, which is why she got her job and your department. Making sure Nations are protected is her life’s work, and it has been ever since they changed back. I knew that when I started dating her and I knew that getting married to her. If you’d called to tell me you’d found absolute proof that she’d been manipulating the hell out heads of government to keep them out their Nations’ business, I wouldn’t be surprised. She’d blackmail people if she thought it would make a Nation’s life easier, especially the ones she grew up with. But killing one- she’s almost killed someone before, but that was in self-defense, and I think she’d do the same if it was a Nation, because she knows they’d get back up and she wouldn’t. But permanently… I can’t see it. She cares too much. Not even for her father, but she’d agonize over it, trying to find a solution that let her have Germany but keep Dietrich.”

Miervaldis felt he _really_ didn’t need, and probably shouldn’t, know these things about his boss, so he asked: “And Nia?”

There was a long pause.

“If you’d asked me five years ago,” Rémy said. “I could have told you what she’d do. She wouldn’t have gotten involved. Not because she particularly objected to doing anything, like Heinrich would have, but because she wouldn’t know _what_ to do. Now- I think she’s swung to the other extreme. She might still not know what to do, but by God, she’s going to do _something._ And tearing Dietrich down to put Germany back might very well happen, if that’s what she finds out has to happen.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Miervaldis said, mostly because he _really_ didn’t want to think about this any longer. The moral flexibility Rémy was describing was… uncomfortable. Extremely troubling.

Even, he admitted, slightly terrifying. He hadn’t wanted to know that he knew people who might take things that far.

“But that wasn’t actually why I called,” he continued. “I need to talk to you about the background check you did on Keld Schumacher.”

* * *

Kitezh was like Irkalla, in its own way. As the walls of Irkalla rose seven-tiered above the twilight gray of the swamp, so was Kitezh ringed, an inner and an outer. The gates were weathered wood and bronze, and there were but two guards, each in their watchtowers on either side of the gate. Germany’s children rode over the water to them, Mayet’s black falcon swooping and soaring in the air over the shoreline.

The inset gate, large enough for people on horseback, opened as they moved from sea to shore, the _crunch_ of hooves on gravel and shells putting Heinrich and Zell’s minds, at least, at ease. Out of the gate rode a woman, clad in a breastplate and pauldrons, a split quilted skirt padding her legs against her extended tassets. A long metal lance, sleek unpainted steel, was cradled loosely in one arm, the pointing thrusting towards the sky, glinting in the setting sun. Its base rested in a special support built into her saddle for it, the saddle itself festooned with small buckles for securing items, just like the one Nia had chosen. Currently, the woman’s saddle held nothing but a hunting horn, bound in tooled golden leather but for the bared mouth, bare horn and carved in the likeness of a snarling deerhound, and the mouthpiece, brass.

The woman held out a heavy leather glove to Nia.

“You’ll need this,” she said, eyeing the falcon. “Kem-Essuru wants to come down.”

Nia slipped it on and held out her arm; Kem-Essuru dove down and landed on her, restless and shifting for a moment until he got a good talon-hold.

“I am Zorya Kaschiyivna, Princess of Buyan,” the woman told them, and made a little bow in the saddle, her free arm sweeping to the side. “Welcome to Kitezh, Veneziano’s children.”

If Kitezh-the-island was more than Buyan-the-city, they didn’t see it, traveling only on the upward inclines of the city’s cobbled streets. Buyan was strangely quiet, to Zell and Heinrich, used to cities with a thick press of people- especially since it was only mid-afternoon. There were residents in the street, yes; but they stepped aside long before Zorya, the leader of their little group, got near them, ducking into doorways and alleys, watching as they passed. Their whispers were a bit like the breeze through the trees, a bit like the distant hollow whistling groan of the wind through skyscraper canyons, and a bit like distant rumble of thunder. Zorya took it in stride, focusing straight ahead, leading them up the winding main street to, eventually the gates of the palace.

People came to take their horses. Zorya’s, Zell’s, and Heinrich’s went easily enough, but Arion tossed his head, snorting disdainfully, and trotted off towards the stables by himself. Nia started to look for someone to pass off Kem-Essuru to, but Zorya was beckoning them up the steps to the doors, and the attendants had vanished.

The palace was surprisingly low, hung with thick fabric, not really tapestries, properly, patterned more like rugs or bedcurtains, bright and rich against the stone. Their walk here was short- just through one hallway, to a set of bronze doors, much brighter and better polished than the city gates, embossed with scenes that none of them were able to see properly before Zorya pushed the double doors open and stepped through.

The room beyond was spacious, square rather than rectangular, covered in carpets, the join of the floor to the walls hidden by piles of cushions, thick and soft and often tasseled or with a pattern in the weave. The lighting was at about the level of a day under the dark clouds of an impending storm, lit in places brighter by mirrored brass lamps. At the far end, two people reclined on a platform, piled with yet more cushions; and two stood, speaking with them.

First to turn and look was one of the standing people, and when she did they saw she was Zorya’s twin in every way, from coloring to armor, except for her height, a little taller than Zorya. She strode towards them, and grabbed her sister’s arm when she was in range, saying something to her lowly in what Zell would have called Russian, but for that she couldn’t understand a word. The sounds and the cadence were the same and, suddenly, she was struck by the realization that so far, _everyone_ they had spoken with had been talking in Venetian. She had… missed that, somehow.

She didn’t particularly want to think on how, or why, she could have.

Following Zorya’s sister came the other who had been standing, this a man. The temperature dropped steadily as he approached, until when he was within in conversation range Heinrich could see his breath freezing in the air in front of him, and there was frost rime forming on the rugs once he stood still. This man was not in armor, but a simple long dark coat, in the Russian style, with a voluminous coal gray cloak wrapped around and over it. His hair and mustace where a purer white than the sisters’, and his pale eyes unpleasantly sharp beneath his thick brows, partially hidden by the black fur hat.

A moment passed as he looked at them, and he smiled cuttingly, teeth bared.

“Yes,” he said, and Zell couldn’t quite place the accent. Something Slavic. “ _Germany_. I remember. A beautiful winter in Stalingrad.”

“My father is hosting them, husband,” Zorya’s sister said. “Be hospitable.”

He dropped the smile and inclined his head towards her, shallowly.

“As you wish,” he conceded, expression softening.

“My sister Zvezda,” Zorya told them, making slightly belated introductions. “The Captain of the Guard. And her husband, Boreas. General Winter.”

“ _Solnyshko_!” one of the reclining figures called. “Come- let me see my guests!”

Zvezda and General Winter cleared their way, and Zorya ushered them up the room to the foot of the platform. It was tall enough to have a few steps leading up, and put anyone standing at about eye-to-eye with someone sitting on the platform.

The previous speaker was a man, bristling in dark orange hair, a natural brown-red. He had a full beard, carefully trimmed, and wore much the same style of dress as the General- though his coat was opened, showing off the fine clothes beneath.

“King Kaschei Perun,” Zorya said, tone formal. “Father. I present to you Gisela, Lavinia, and Heinrich Beilschmidt, the children of Feliciano Costa, Veneziano.”

 “Venice?”

Now, the one who spoke was King Perun’s companion, a woman dripping in hanging fabric and jewelry. Her dress, or more likely robes, were white and shades of blue and dark green, charcoal and black and gold and purple, all silk, that shone in the lamplight. There were portions done with embroidery and glass beads, in flowing abstract designs. Otherwise, she was heavily festooned with strands of the same beads, tiny and richly colored, interspersed with pearls and drops in coral and jet and tortoise shell, detailed and wrapped with thin, delicate bronze wire. When she stood, she would clink and rustle and jingle, the everything she wore weighing her down- but, from the look in her black eyes, shadowed possibly by kohl and possibly by the light, perhaps a bit of both and a touch of unfathomable depth, the weight was an anchor to the ground, buttressing and supporting instead of a hindrance. Her headdress had the distinct look of a crown about it, intricate gold and brass with strips and plates of mother-of-pearl hanging from the bottom rim, resting on her long black hair, worn loose in its natural wave. Hung in with the plates were polished and shaped bits of red and orange coral separating strings of gold rings, in various styles, shining in the lamplight, capped at the ends with abalone disks that shimmered with iridescence. She was playing with an unstrung one, plain gold, walking it along her fingers, over and under, over and under-

“Yes, I remember Venice,” said Amphitrite Kataiis.

* * *

Maybe everyone’s houses were like this?

That could be a compelling reason to force himself to sit through other people’s company, investigating their houses. He hadn’t seen much of Germany’s house, when he’d been in there, but it had seemed significantly more modern than this villa. Perhaps it was because Germany had raised his children there? Had Romano and Spain raised their children in Naples, or Spain?

Dietrich eyed Poland speculatively and wondered what _his_ house looked like. Romano’s was strange- a clearly Roman villa, but in use. The walls were frescoed, some places in scenes, some places in blocks of bright color. Some of the original walls had clearly been knocked down- the two-story converted atrium he’d been led through was simply too open for anything else to have occurred- and extended in others, to make doorways instead of passages. The peristylum was just as it always had been, probably- a kitchen garden, with herbs and vegetables and some ornamental plants that Romano didn’t seem to be the sort of person to admit to owning. An entire corner of the building, roughly where the exedra would have been, had been razed and paved over with flagstones to make a patio area. The second floor, above them, had a balcony, open-air to both the interior and exterior of the house, which Dietrich suspected had a fantastic view of the surrounding area.

But, for this meeting, Romano had installed him and Poland on the first floor patio, and was serving iced water.

This meeting was very specifically not supposed to be political. Dietrich had already discarded talking about the garden as a conversation topic, because he was unpleasantly certain that Romano was one of those people who go on about their gardens for hours and _hours,_ boring everyone else half to death.

So, really, there was only one topic of conversation that was both relevant and interesting.

“How was your trip?” he asked.

Romano raised one eyebrow at him, lips thinning into a line that Dietrich would have catalogued as ‘disapproving’, except the man didn’t seem upset.

“Frustrating,” Romano told him. “Maddening.”

“You didn’t find them, did you?” Poland asked, and Dietrich knew the answer was _‘no’_ even without being able to feel Germany’s children. The way Romano had been rushing about, trying to set things up for this meeting he’d barely made, indicated a certain level of worry.

“I got there too late,” Romano said. “Ereshkigal had already had them.”

Dietrich noted the way Poland’s eyes went wide and… scared.

“Ereshkigal?” Dietrich asked. “I know that name. She was a Sumerian goddess. They actually exist? Gods?”

Romano put his glass down on the table and leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming on the table as he studied him.

“Not my place to say,” he told him eventually. “I don’t know if humans named their gods after the Kings of Honalee, or if the Kings took the names of human gods, or…”

“It’s, like,” Poland jumped in after Romano had trailed off. “Okay, you’ve heard of like, paradoxes? The time travel stuff? Kinda like that. Nobody knows if the myths came first and the people _totally_ copied them, or if the people came first and humans just like, stole everything? Or if it was some kinda freaky parallel development.”

“Personally, I don’t see how a human could have gotten to Honalee in the first place,” Romano said. “It’s possible- but unless you already know what you’re doing. Well.”

“And the Kings are _totally not_ into getting involved with humans,” Poland added. “They like _us,_ I guess; but we’re like, _super-_ close to what they are, anyway.”

“The… Kings,” Dietrich said. “They’re like Nations?”

“No,” Romano said. “But they’re a hell of a lot more like Nations than they’re like humans.”

“So that’s why we don’t have-” Dietrich waved his hands vaguely around, indicating nothing in particular, trying to find words. “All those things. Myths and legends and fairytales, here? Because they don’t like humans?”

“Nobody said they didn’t like humans,” Romano told him. “It’s- jurisdictional. Would _you_ go letting your people muck around in other Nation’s countries? Not unless you wanted a war. We’re-”

He cut off, a little frustrated. The explanation wasn’t coming along the right way.

“But my people _could_ go do things in other countries,” Dietrich pointed out, highlighting the issue Romano had run into. “It would only be a war if it was the military.”

“The Kings of Honalee don’t recognize the authority of human government, in and of itself,” Romano tried.

“Let’s say you like, went hiking in the Alps and found this town nobody had ever heard of,” Poland suggested. “Nobody owned it. It was self-governing and- oh my God, this is so totally way more difficult than it needs to be.”

“I have no idea what you’re trying to tell me,” Dietrich said.

 “The Kings of Honalee find the fact that Nations _aren’t_ the acknowledged rightful leaders of our people and our countries so fucking absurd that they refuse to act like we aren’t,” Romano told him, dispensing of analogy altogether. “They call us kings in our own right. King Naples. King Poland. King Deutschlanden. It’s _us_ they come to if they want to do something on Earth, or with humans. Not the government.”

“They must like Cuba a lot, then,” Dietrich remarked.

Poland shrugged.

“I don’t even like, know if they know? They probably don’t know. They don’t _actually_ like, talk to us a whole lot. They don’t really need to.”

“So then _why,_ ” Dietrich asked. “If they consider us sovereign rulers equal to themselves, didn’t you come back with your nieces and nephew? Do they need _Veneziano_ to come do it?”

“Feli wouldn’t be able to get them out of _shit,_ ” Romano said flatly, and with a rancor Dietrich was a bit surprised by. Given the raised eyebrow that Poland gave the man, he was surprised, as well. “Ereshkigal got Nia to make a deal.”

“Oh my God,” Poland said. “I’m _so_ sorry.”

Dietrich looked between Poland and Romano.

“Deals are bad?”

“They take promises and stuff _really seriously_ there,” Poland said. “If you don’t like, know _exactly_ what you’re doing, you’re _totally_ getting fucked over. You can appeal it to the Jagdsprinz and the Wild Hunt, but there’s like, a bunch of rules and stuff.”

“And Cass is a self-absorbed shithead who thinks being able to do something is the same as knowing what to do, so they had no _warning,_ ” Romano added venomously. The anger was a building current below his words. “They just walked straight into a- a fucking _trap!_ The Kings are out to get what _they_ want, and they play anyone they come across to make things happen their way. They’ll-!”

Romano’s anger blocked the words and he rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, pressing his hands against the side of his head as he took some deep breaths.

After a few moments of silence, Poland asked: “What did Nia agree to, Lovino?”

“Jagdsprinz Erlkönig was murdered,” Romano told them. “Ereshkigal contracted her on behalf of the Kings to avenge him.”

“The Erlkönig was _murdered?_ ” Poland repeated, stunned. “Why haven’t they like, taken care of that already? Why isn’t the _new_ Jagdsprinz doing that? That would be like, _exactly_ his sort of job _._ ”

“There _is_ no Jagdsprinz after Erlkönig,” Romano said. “No one’s taken up the Horned Helm. The Hounds do not run and the Hunt does not ride.”

“There’s no…”

Poland just trailed off, trying to comprehend a Honalee without the Hunt.

“And Ereshkigal sent Nia after whoever managed _that?_ ”

“It’s worse,” Romano said. “Whoever it was-”

He looked over at Dietrich, briefly, before dropping his eyes to the table.

“They’re responsible for Ludwig, too. The Holy Roman Empire. All of them.”

“I-”

Poland stood up abruptly, his chair scraping unpleasantly across the patio.

“I- I just- excuse me. There’s- Ludwig _and_ the Erlkönig _and-_ I should- I’m gonna go try to remember my pagan shit.”

He paused momentarily, just before he disappeared from sight, and looked at Romano.

“I’ll be praying for Nia and them,” he said. “Whatever good it will do them there.”

The garden fell to silence once he’d left, Romano and Dietrich sitting without saying a word for a few minutes.

“About Germany-” Dietrich started.

“You scared?” Romano asked. “Fucking shitton of crap, this whole damn thing. _Be_ scared _._ ”

“I’m not,” Dietrich said, and then plunged onwards before he could talk himself out of it. The whole point of trying to arrange a meeting with Romano was so he’d have someone he trusted to ask:

“What was Ludwig like?”

* * *

Prussia wore his uniform to the café. It caused a bit of a sensation.

He went up to the counter and leaned on it. He could see, through the porthole window in the kitchen door, that a man and woman were arguing. After a moment, the man pushed the door open and came to confront him.

“Elke Bastian sent me,” Gilbert said before the man could say anything. “I need to know some things about Xaver Kraus.”

The woman came out of the kitchen.

“Let me talk to him, Brian,” she said; and gave Gilbert a long look-over as Brian scowled and scooted around her back into the kitchen. The atmosphere in the café loosened somewhat as the patrons saw she had the situation apparently well in hand.

“Xaver would have been ecstatic that you’d come asking about him,” the woman said after a few long moments. “Prussia.”

Gilbert raised an eyebrow at her, surprised.

“I’m not sure that name applies any longer,” he said. “I’m General Beilschmidt, these days. You must be Ute Kassmeyer.”

“Yes, I heard; and yes, I am,” Ute said. “Why don’t you come around to my office?”

Gilbert accepted the invitation and ducked behind the counter to follow her to a door that opened on a narrow set of stairs. At the top was the office.

“Now, I’m pretty distinctive,” Gilbert said once they’d sat down. “But we’ve never met. How’d you know? That’s not exactly… typical.”

“Xaver,” Ute told him. “He was a big Nation enthusiast. That’s why he took an intern job at the Reichstag, when he could have gotten something better-paying and more age-appropriate somewhere else. I’d get excited text messages whenever he saw you or Germany passing through the office.”

“He didn’t work in _our_ office,” Gilbert said, put off a little at the idea that someone had been excited just to _see_ him or Ludwig, like they were celebrities or something. “Ludwig would have noticed the overbearing enthusiasm and given the man a lecture he’d never forget.”

“Oh, he’d never forget it,” Ute said. “But I don’t think it would be because of the reasons you’re implying. He did something in one of the other offices. Basically amounted to running interoffice mail and getting reports and such. Sometimes they had him write up something.”

“What, all of you went to college together?” Gilbert said. “Elke’s… thirty-something now. A man in his late twenties took some dinky internship designed for college kids to- get _close_ to us?”

“Well when you say it like _that,_ ” Ute said. “It sounds really stalkerish.”

 “And that’s why he didn’t leave the internship when Elke and Fadri moved up to Berlin,” he suggested.

“I-” Ute frowned. “Maybe. I asked him why he wasn’t joining the GfL office up there when Brian told me Elke had said he wasn’t showing up. He was a little weird about it.”

“Weird.”

“He said there were Nazis in the government,” Ute admitted after a few seconds of looking uncomfortable. “I thought it was a delayed reaction to Manfried’s murder. Or, maybe he _had_ found some, and felt like it was his duty as a founding member of the GfL to expose them. He was evasive about mentioning names. But Elke and Fadri never brought it up, so I guess if there were actually people to find, he never got what he needed on them.”

“Hm,” Gilbert said, noncommittally. _He_ certainly hadn’t known about any secret Nazis in the government- and he made sure to make sure. He and Ludwig both had. “Did he ever talk about Anika Abt?”

“I hadn’t heard of her until the news,” Ute said.

Prussia debated with himself a moment about telling her more, and decided it would probably help the investigation if she knew the sort of thing to think about. And she was one of the founding members of Elke’s party. There shouldn’t be any problems telling her information that wasn’t really supposed to be public knowledge, but wasn’t really secret, either.

“Anika had an apartment full of Xaver’s pamphlets, the ones he wrote under the name ‘Anthemion’,” Prussia told her. “She died trying to kill the German Lands, not Elke. Right before she stabbed him, she handed him a paper that… strongly implied that she thought he was a Nazi, and that the Fire of Berlin was to get rid of Nazis in power in the government.”

Ute was silent for a few moments.

“I see where this is a problem, then,” she said. “You think Anika picked up Xaver’s idea and twisted it around?”

“We’re still investigating,” Prussia told her, standing to leave. “If you think of anything, call. Elke can give you my number.”

* * *

They had coffee every time now, instead of meeting in the office. Armas needed to get away from work, and Dosia was always up for coffee and cake over doing homework, and often they could do those things together.

Dosia would show up at their usual coffee place, halfway between campus and the government offices, and order coffee and cake for both of them. She’d spread out with the homework she had to do and start working.

Armas would show up not too much later, sit down, take his coffee and cake, and they’d talk. They’d start off with whatever Poland wanted passed along, which wasn’t often much, and then drift off to some other topic, usually how their days had gone so far. Sometimes Armas helped Teodozja with her homework, or she helped him talk through his problems at the office.

When Armas turned up this time, embarrassedly trying to hide from a reporter with a camera, Teodozja realized she should have expected this. She was meeting a top government official regularly, in a public coffee house, without even trying to be a little evasive or private about it.

“Sorry,” Armas muttered as he slid into his seat opposite Teodozja. She’d taken their usual table, by the window, so the reporter could easily see them.

“Don’t hunch your shoulders up like that,” Teodozja advised, drawing on her experience with being, first, a teenaged mother with a baby, and now a college-aged mother with a child just old enough to no longer be a toddler. “Don’t act like there’s something wrong, or that _you’re_ doing something wrong, when you’re not. We’re talking.”

“There’ll probably be wild speculation we’re having a scandalous affair,” he replied, in a little louder mutter, but slowly started to drop his shoulders.

“I’m a software engineering major,” Teodozja retorted. “I don’t have time for any scandalous affairs.”

“Oh?” Armas asked, humor edging into his voice. “What about just plain old affairs?”

Teodozja was working up into making a witty retort when her adoptive father walked into the coffee house, snagged a chair, and sat down between them at the table like it was completely normal.

“Mr. Łukasiewicz,” Armas said, somewhere between surprised and confused- wary, Teodozja decided.

Poland ignored him and stuck a hand in his pocket to pull something out. Whatever-it-was, clenched in his fist, it put Teodozja on edge, for no reason she could determine. Armas looked like it was affecting him as well.

Poland pressed the thing into her free hand. It turned out to be a necklace, a circular wooden pendant a little larger than a Euro coin, carved into a flower surrounded by a ring. The flower was painted a bright red-orange, and the ring was gold. It was hung on a bronze-colored silk cord.

For something so small and pretty, it was-

“I put some magic behind it,” Poland said in an undertone. “Only like, a little bit. It won’t hurt you. It’s for protection.”

“You think-” Armas said, glancing at Teodozja.

“Lovino came back,” he told them. “What he found out- it would make me feel _totally so much better_ if you wore it, Dosia. Please. I… Things are bad. They’ve been bad, and we didn’t know, and-”

Teodozja slipped the cord over her head and tried to get used to the feel of magic on her skin.

* * *

“He used to visit,” Amphitrite Kataiis said. The ring flipped over and over, languidly, along her fingers. “He used to come to Póli Thálassas, and we would talk and sing and explore, enjoying ourselves and each other’s company. Each year, he reaffirms his vow to wed the Sea.”

The ring flipped under her fingers now, and she clamped her hand shut on it.

“His vow to be my spouse,” Amphitrite said. “But now, he never comes. Not for two centuries and more.”

“I’m sorry,” Heinrich said. It was reflex.

“Why?” the Queen of All Waters asked. “It is not your fault Venice is a fickle one, however sweet and loving. I would know, though, Venice’s children, what you were told of me.”

“Nothing,” Nia answered. “We didn’t know you existed until we went to Irkalla. He never told us. And he certainly never told his husband, or _Vati_ wouldn’t have married him.”

“He can’t have told Cristoforo, either,” Zell added. “The Vatican. Or Romano. They wouldn’t have let _Babbo_ cheat.”

“His husband,” Amphitrite said, expression and tone completely blank.

“Germany,” Nia said. “He’s dead. Four years now. Ereshkigal said the one responsible is the one who killed the Jagdsprinz.”

At _‘Jagdsprinz’_ , the atmosphere of the room changed. Everyone seemed more alert. Focused.

Amphitrite leaned forward sharply, studying them intently.

“The Jagdsprinz,” she said. “Yes. This is why you have come?”

“Ereshkigal called it _‘the wrongs against the way of things’_ ,” Nia told her, straightening and staring her straight in the face. “But she wouldn’t do anything to right it. So _I_ am.”

“We’re supposed to ask you the name of the person responsible for it all,” Heinrich added when the silence in the room after his sister spoke stretched too long. “Ereshkigal didn’t tell us. Or Mayet, or Kore Despoina.”

“It’s quite a story,” Amphitrite said.

“We shall have it over dinner!” Kaschei Perun ruled, and stood, stepping down from the platform and striding to the doors. His daughters and son-in-law trailed behind him.

Amphitrite rose as well, and didn’t step so much as descend gracefully. Her silk robes proved semi-translucent, and shimmered with color and patterned depth, like a sunlit pool or stream.

“Escort me,” she commanded, holding her hand out for Nia to place her arm under. It was awkward, walking down the hallways after Kaschei Perun and the others, with Amphitrite Kataiis on one arm and Kem-Essuru on the other; but they proceeded quickly. Amphitrite evidently knew exactly where to go, and by the time they arrived at the dining room, the food had arrived and the seating cushions were set up, and someone had found a perch for Kem-Essuru. Nia was happy to relinquish the hawk and get her other arm back.

Zell, Heinrich, and Nia were shown to their spots in the cushion-nest surrounding the low table, laden with food. Kaschei Perun was on end, and facing him, at the head of the table, Amphitrite Kataiis sunk to the floor. Ignoring the food Kaschei and his family were beginning to apply themselves to, she began to speak.

“I remember a time when the Sea was all, but for Irkalla,” she said. “When it was but an island and there were none but Ereshkigal and Mayet and I. There was land, eventually, and sky, and with them came others. Kaschei Perun and Buyan. Alberich King of the Dwarves and the Mountains East and West. Beli Mawr and the Silent Hills. The first time I set foot on land, it was one the shoreline of what is now Orcus. I slept atop the guarding cliffs, and when I woke, I was with child. I gave birth on the plains of Orcus, to Kore Despoina, whom Ereshkigal granted that land, and to Arion, who stayed there with her for years uncounted.

There were people, later. We became Kings, the leaders of the ones like us. After there were people, I found myself again with child, a second daughter. I called her Danu, and she left me for the Silent Hills and the glamor of the Tylwyth Teg, and married Beli Mawr, their first King. They had five children- Lludd Llaw, Afallach, Arianrhod, Caswallawn, and Llefelys. Upon the death of Danu and Beli Mawr, Lludd Llaw became King of the Tylwyth Teg, and he took as his chief retainer his brother Caswallan. Unto Afallach was given Avalon, in my waters on the other side of the Silent Hills, and he likewise took his brother Llefelys as his chief retainer. Arianrhod married Kaschei Perun, and bore him two daughters before her death, Zvezda and Zorya.”

“A fine woman she was,” Kaschei said quietly. “She is well missed.”

“Lludd Llaw had two children, his elder daughter Creiddylad and his younger son Gwyn,” Amphitrite continued. “Creiddylad was to be Queen of the Tylwyth Teg upon her father’s death, and her uncle Caswallawn, who thought that Lludd Llaw had been misfavored by their parents and that he was not fit to be King, nor his daughter Queen after him. He was not completely wrong, at least in case of Lludd Llaw, who was no bad person, but a bad King- and would not have been King, but for the duty he had been charged with since birth by his parents, who had sworn him to the throne of the Tylwyth Teg, just as he had his eldest child. So, Caswallawn murdered his brother and niece. Llefelys returned to the Silent Hills from Avalon, on Afallach’s orders, to avenge their eldest brother. Caswallawn and Llefelys slew each other, and Gwyn became King of the Tylwyth Teg, and his wife Nicnevin Queen.

But Gwyn understood that a failure of an unbreakable contract- of family obligation, of trust between ruler and people, of any morals whatsoever- was a contract badly negotiated and maliciously executed, and that this was at fault for the tragedy. So he went to Ereshkigal for a solution. He asked for a way to enforce terms of a contract, and to rule when terms were unfair or misdrawn, and could alter or void duties and debts, and who could punish those who would abuse those duties they were charged with and those debts they were owed.

Ereshkigal created the Wild Hunt that day, and Gwyn ap Lludd as the Jagdsprinz, called Erlkönig for the circumstances that led to his rule, and was granted the Jägerskov. Every King gave a thing of power to him, to cement his office. Mayet gave him the core of his power- the ability to see, with a look, the balance of a person’s soul. To see the debts owed and owning, to see the terms of a person’s promises and oaths and vows. Their contracts, formal and informal, explicit and implied, civic and familial. It was a great power, and many of Honalee joined to execute this duty. My son, Arion. Gwyn ap Lludd’s son, Ly Erg. Zvezda and Zorya Kaschiyivna; and Boreas, General Winter.

And because the power and authority of the Hunt was from Ereshkigal, and because our own power was bound to it, we thought there would be none who could challenge it.”

The room was quiet as Amphitrite breathed out, deeply, her eyes closing as she composed herself.

“Someone did, though,” Zell said. “Who?”

“It was sudden, what happened,” Amphitrite said. “Unexpected, as it was no one of Honalee. It was foreign, other, and it fell upon the Hunt in their Hall, in the Jägerskov.”

“We weren’t there,” Zorya said quietly. “My sister and brother-in-law and I. Mother had just died, and so we were home. That is why we live.”

“It was a terrible monster, as Ly Erg ap Gwyn told us, later,” Amphitrite continued. “It _appeared,_ suddenly, in the midst of the Hunt’s meeting in their Hall. The Jagdsprinz was as unprepared as his Jäger, and was killed where he stood within moments. His son took his sword, and Arion carried him away from the slaughter. Within the day, of a Hunt enough for a battlefield, a mere dozen survived. Now, there are but those four here on Buyan, and Ly Erg in the Mountains, in exile from the Hills. The others are dead. There are many who would take up the arms of a slain relative to once again to form the ranks- but there is no Jagdsprinz to call them. The Horned Helm sits still in the Hall where the monster now resides, and until someone dons it, there is no Jagdsprinz and no Wild Hunt.”

“But _who?_ ” Zell pressed. “Who killed the Erlkönig?”

“Who killed my father?” Nia asked.

“The monster came as a large creature, misshapen, with claws and teeth enough to rend armor,” Amphitrite said. “This is not it’s only form, nor it’s natural one. I know, for during the first rain after the slaughter, I went myself to the Jägerskov and spied from the drip of the pines and rush of the streams. It’s natural form-”

She paused momentarily.

“Its natural form is, at its heart, much as an overlarge human. A head, two arms, and two legs. But the head is not as a human’s, and the arms and fingers long. It can be bright and fiery, dangerously so, and it can fly. It has three sets of wings, as a bird’s, arrayed down its back. I found this through the storm. And it found me.

I was far from where the monster was, and it had no pressing urge to hunt me down. It merely turned to where a sheet of water poured from the damaged roof of the Jagdshalle, and smiled. Widely, with teeth sharp and numerous. It said: _‘I see you’_.”

Again, a pause, as Amphitrite remembered.

“ _‘And I see you,’_ I replied. _‘I am one of the Kings of Honalee, Amphitrite Kataiis, Empress of Póli Thálassas, Queen of All Waters, Ancestress of the Realms, Mother of Horses, and Wife of the Nation Venice. Who are you, slaughterer?’_

The monster laughed, and told me: _‘I am the demon Mephistopheles, a fallen Seraphim, and there is nothing of yours, mortal, however vast, that shall intimidate me. I have slain the greatest of your Kings, and am taking the Nation Holy Rome for my own. I am undoing him and his power shall be mine, just as one day I shall undo you and the other Kings and_ your _powers shall be mine’_.”

Heinrich leaned forwards over the table, burying his face in his hands.

“Mephistopheles,” he whispered. _“Mephistopheles.”_

 “Christmas,” Nia said heavily. “In the House. The first painting was Justus Georg _Faust_.”

“You know this demon,” Zorya said.

“You have your family stories, Princess,” Heinrich told her. “And we have ours. The demon Mephistopheles is one.”

* * *

“Really?” Rémy asked, sounding skeptical. “Keld Schumacher? He’s been working with us four years now. Why are you asking _now?_ ”

“Some things he told me,” Miervaldis said, and outlined what he knew about Hanna Schumacher.

“She had pictures,” he finished with. “Personal things. Nations on dates, out around places. One of them was Estonia at home.”

“I swear to you there was _no_ hint of this when I did the background check,” Rémy told him. “None whatsoever. I could have told you where his sister lived, and that they didn’t seem particularly close, but- there was nothing. Wherever she’s doing this, it isn’t publically.”

“There’s some online forum,” Miervaldis said. “There’s a lot here. It’s about half-and-half between socializing and actual discussion about Nations. Most of it is laughably wrong. There’s nothing _actually_ illegal, but there’s a section I can’t get on.”

“Who do you want me filing the report with?” Rémy asked.

“Report?”

“You just told me that there’s a group of people going around _stalking,_ to various degrees, Nations,” Rémy said. “ _Somebody_ has to deal with this.”

“I think it’s technically supposed to be my job,” Miervaldis said after a moment. “As acting head of the United Nations’ Department of _Nations’ Affairs_. Especially since I can’t think of anyone else who would reasonably have jurisdiction.”

“The national governments, I’d think,” Rémy said.

“We don’t actually know who took the pictures,” Miervaldis pointed out. “We don’t know, with the exception of two women, one of whom is now dead, who they actually _are._ We have a collection of screen names and, with what we have available, there’s nothing we can give any government for them to justify an investigation. But up here it’s just me and David, really. _We_ can do something.”

“I don’t like it,” Rémy told him.

“I don’t like it either,” Miervaldis said. “But it’s what we have. I’ll tell you if anything new comes up. Call me if you learn anything new about Zell and them?”

“Yeah,” Rémy told him.

Miervaldis had just managed to get settled into doing his regular work when David knocked on his doorframe and stuck his head into the office.

“I looked into the thing you asked me to, with the phone reports,” he said when Miervaldis looked up. “There aren’t any recorded calls around or after January 2048 about Nations, to any office that I could find.”

Miervaldis resisted the urge to sigh.

“Okay, thanks,” he said, and resolved to find a new angle to work at the problem from.

* * *

“We are _not_ doing this here, Veneziano,” Cristoforo said once Hungary had left. His voice was hard, and he was speaking in Latin.

He only talked at people in Latin when they were in trouble.

Feliciano knew exactly why he was in trouble.

And he knew he didn’t want anyone hearing the outburst he knew his brother was trying hard to restrain- for the moment.

He grabbed Cristoforo’s arm, and in a moment they were in the salt marshes, the _barene,_ southwest of the city on the mainland.

Cristoforo _exploded._

 _“YOU WERE **MARRIED!** ” _he roared. _“THE WHOLE TIME!”_

He started to stride angrily back and forth along the strip of land Feliciano had put them on.

“ _Decades_ you courted Ludwig!” Cristoforo seethed. “ _Sixty and some **years** _ you were together; you had _children_ together! And then you _married him!_ **_I_** married you!”

Feliciano moved to speak, and Cristoforo held a hand up in his face.

“ _Do not **speak,**_ ” he hissed. “I am fully reconciled to the fact that the definition of marriage is flawed, and that it is the love and the commitment that is important, and not the gender of the people involved. But what _you_ have done, Feliciano, is purely and simply a _disgrace!_ ”

He started to pace again.

“In the Old Testament, there were those who had more than one spouse at a time,” he continued. “Lamech and Esau, David and Solomon. Exodus and Deuteronomy provide rules for how this is to be conducted. But these laws were, as Augustine has said, for the purpose of begetting many children for a people to whom religion comes with the blood; a concern not shared by Christians. The key duty of marriage- _the key point,_ Feliciano!- is that equal personal dignity must be accorded between spouses through _mutual_ and _unreserved_ affection; for marriage, which is a _sacrament_ , that binds the souls of people, _unto **death,**_ in God’s eyes!”

“I love Ludwig,” Feliciano said. “He loved me. There was never-”

“Oh, you **_loved_** _him,_ ” Cristoforo spat. “You love the sea as well, Feliciano, you always have- do _not_ try to tell me otherwise! You _love_ them- and yet!”

He spread his arms apart.

“You were _unfaithful!_ You _abandoned_ the first; and lied to the second!”

“I-”

_“When was the last time you went to see Amphitrite Kataiis?”_

“16-something,” Feliciano muttered. “After Lepanto, sometime. I was fighting and fighting over markets that were worth less every year, because of the new colonies in the Americas and the Dutch and Portuguese and Spanish and French and English, they could just send their ships around Africa. They didn’t need middlemen any-”

“So as soon as it became _inconvenient,_ ” Cristoforo said. “As soon as the fortunes the sea had made you began to flow away- as soon as it was no longer _profitable._ ”

“I-”

“But you kept renewing your vow! You kept marrying the sea, every year, despite the fact that you had cast her from your affections! The sea that made you great, made you powerful, that kept you _alive_ through two millennia- abandoned! _This_ is the loyalty you show?”

“I-”

“ _Stop. **Talking,**_ ” Cristoforo ordered, tone low and venomous. “And while you did this, while you were leaving your marriage to wither and come to ruin, you became involved with Ludwig; whom you never told a _thing._ You _took advantage_ of him, of his ignorance, to commit adultery with him!”

“Actually, no,” Feliciano said. “We didn’t do sex. Ludwig wasn’t-”

“In _spirit,_ ” Cristoforo hissed. “ _Mutual_ and _unreserved_ affection is the obligation in a marriage, and you _violated_ that! What sort of love can you have when the foundation of the relationship is lies; or broken promises?”

“There-”

A sharp _smack_ cut him off abruptly- Cristoforo had backhanded him across the face, hard enough to send him to knees.

 _“Stop trying to **justify** yourself!” _Cristoforo snarled; jabbing a finger down at him as he towered over his brother. “ _You,_ Feliciano, will _not_ set foot in a church until you have made your confession _and_ your penitence! This you will come to _me_ for, so I _know_ that it has been done- I shall not _trust_ that it has been done, otherwise.”

“I couldn’t give up Ludwig,” Feliciano said quietly, miserably, after a moment. “I _couldn’t,_ Cristoforo.”

“Then perhaps his destruction was a boon for you,” the Vatican said. “Because now he will never have to learn what you did.”

* * *

Romano stared Dietrich down for a few long moments.

“You want to know about Ludwig,” he said.

Dietrich nodded.

“You don’t _like_ Ludwig.”

“I don’t like people thinking that I _am_ Ludwig,” Dietrich corrected. “I don’t want to be him. But I don’t know what he was like. I don’t think Prussia…”

He just trailed off, waiting for Romano to say something.

“Do you want to know what Ludwig was like because you want to know?” he asked, giving the German Lands a piercing look. “Or do you want to know so you can avoid acting like him?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dietrich said, uncomfortable.

“Yes it does,” Lovino said, and leaned across the table, putting his face inches from the other man’s. “Living your life to be the opposite of someone else is just as much a load of shit as living your life to be just like someone else. I’ve tried both. It’s not fucking worth it. So _which is it?_ ”

“I just want to know,” Dietrich mumbled, dropping his eyes.

Romano huffed, and withdrew to his side of the table, leaning comfortably against the back of his chair.

“You’re lucky Feli liked talking about him so damn much. I’ll tell you,” he decided. “If only so you know that trying to be as unlike Ludwig as possible will turn you into a pretty fucking horrible person.”

“But Gilbert said, when he was teaching me about why it was important to be careful about your government-”

“He was _really fucked up_ in World War Two,” Lovino said. “He was-”

He groped for words.

“ _‘He was Germany; not Ludwig’_ was how Feliciano explained it to me,” Lovino said. “He had a problem, and I’m pretty sure you have exactly the opposite one. _He_ was trying too hard to be Germany, to be a good _Nation_ \- he was growing into being Ludwig, into being his own person, and he was refusing to let it happen, because he thought it meant he was failing. He kept running in the opposite direction, throwing himself more and more into his government- which was the worst one to do it with. You… you started _out_ as your own person. You’ve been Dietrich Ehren for your whole life, and now you have to learn how to be Germanenlanden.”

“I already _know_ I have to balance it,” Dietrich said. “Prussia made that _abundantly clear._ He never _shut up_ about it.”

“For a damn good reason,” Romano scowled. “It was _his_ **_job_** to teach Ludwig about that shit, and he took it for granted that it would happen naturally. He never even thought about it. Feli’s the one who had to tell Germany it was okay to be Ludwig. That it was _good_ for him to be Ludwig.”

“So what was he like?”

Lovino thought about it for a few moments.

“He was kind of fucking paranoid,” he said finally. “He was always scared he was going to overlook something and hurt someone. He _hated_ hurting people. He was self-flagellating whenever he fucked something up, so it made him feel more secure to have a plan and clear goals, so he could definitively say he’d gotten things done and done them _right_. It made him strict and argumentative as _fuck_ when it came to meetings and policy.”

He paused.

“Except Israel. He’d _never_ argue with Israel, even if her position was completely opposite to his. He wouldn’t look her in the eye, either. Sometimes it was fucking _hilarious,_ because he’d say something, even some little thing, and Rahel would disagree with him, and he’d just freeze up and stare at the table or the wall and nothing would get done until somebody else made the decision for him.”

“That doesn’t _sound_ funny,” Dietrich said disapprovingly, frowning at him.

“See!” Lovino pointed at him. “That! Exactly that, that face and that tone- that’s something Ludwig would have done.”

Dietrich was about to say… something, he wasn’t actually sure what, but that merited a response, when Lovino continued.

“And Ludwig didn’t argue with me. Often. I think he was trying to keep Feli happy, but it’s not like _we_ don’t argue all the fucking time. But he always tried his hardest not to upset Feli. Put up with a lot of stuff from him he wouldn’t from anyone else. And he was bad at denying him shit- like, if Feli wanted something done, a date or a meeting item or something around the house or even just leaving work early, it got fucking _done._ Like- Zell was just left at their house when she was a day or two old. Feli’s the one who wanted to keep her first, and Ludwig went with it because it was what Feli wanted. He was always kind and loving with Feli. Considerate. Accepting. Loyal.”

Lovino scowled suddenly, expression darkening thunderously.

“I said earlier Ludwig was paranoid. But he trusted Feli. He trusted Feli _way too fucking much,_ ” he said. “As far as Ludwig concerned, Feli could do no wrong. Or Gilbert. Gilbert could have the worst fucking attitude with him in the world, and Ludwig would get annoyed, yeah. But Feli and Gilbert were his end-all be-all in the world. He loved them. With everything he had.” 

There was silence for a short while.

“What else?” Dietrich asked.

Lovino shrugged.

“What the fuck else do you want to know?” he asked, not actually looking for an answer. “He liked dogs. He was a lot stricter with himself than he was with other people. He liked to bake- cakes, cookies, bread, whatever. He couldn’t turn down sugar; or Feli’s cooking or coffee. He admired art in the same sort of way he admired nature and beautiful people- something he liked aesthetically but didn’t want to do. He really liked technology and was always reading about new stuff and fiddling with shit. He was a crack shot with a gun and was competent at woodwork, though he didn’t like to do either. I could keep going.”

* * *

“Did you hear yet?” Hungary demanded as soon as Prussia returned to his office. Gilbert froze momentarily, adjusting to the surprise of finding another Nation in his space.

“Sorry, sir,” Kasimir Breisacher said quietly. “We recognized them from the picture files you gave us, of the Nations, so we figured we could let them in-”

“Clear it in the future,” Gilbert said. “Or tell me before I get back.”

He dismissed Kasimir and closed the office door behind him.

“This used to be… a sitting room?” Lithuania muttered to himself.

“We’re remodeling,” Gilbert said. “Heard _what,_ Erzsi?”

 “Lovino came back!” she exclaimed. “I was talking to Feli and Cristoforo showed up and said a bunch of things and- oh, _Gilbert!_ ”

“What?” he demanded, alarmed. “What? What did they do? What happened to them?”

“ _Ereshkigal_ happened to them, Gilbert! And Cristoforo told us that Lovino said Kore Despoina told him that the _Jagdsprinz_ is _dead!_ ”

“The Jagdsprinz,” Gilbert said faintly, and sat down hard in his chair. “He’s _dead?_ The Wildes Jagd-”

“He was _yours,_ Gilbert!” Erzsébet said. “Yours and Ludwig’s, just like the Turul and the Csodaszarvas are mine! Or Lintukoto and the Sampo are Finland’s- how-”

“How much do _you_ go to Honalee, Erzsébet?” Gilbert asked. “ _I_ don’t- I haven’t since Brandenburg died! I bet it’s been at _least_ as long as that for you- _longer,_ because the Turul and the Csadaszarvas visit _you!_ ”

“If that Jagdsprinz is dead, I’m surprised this is our first problem with it,” Lithuania said.

“It’s not,” Hungary said. “England and his daughter? Reynard Fox?”

“I… don’t remember that,” Lithuania admitted. “When did that happen?”

“You were dead drunk the whole time,” Prussia said bluntly.

“…oh. I, ah, I came to apologize for that, actually.”

“Okay?” Gilbert said.

“Schumacher said it would be a good idea,” Toris continued. “So I’m apologizing to everyone my drinking caused problems with.”

“So when are you apologizing to Russia?” Hungary wanted to know.

_“Last.”_

“ _Wait,_ ” Gilbert said, as the first part of what Hungary had initially said registered. _“Ereshkigal?”_

“That’s what he said,” Hungary confirmed. “And- Gilbert, I’m _sorry._ ”

“What?” he asked, sounding defeated. “What did they promise. Who did they offend.”

“It was Nia,” Erzsebet told him. “She’s… she’s out for _blood,_ Gilbert. Blood and vengeance; and Zell and Heinz went with her. Ereshkigal told her that the same person who killed the Jagdsprinz is the same person responsible for Ludwig, and- all of that.”

Prussia leaned back in his chair, pressing the heels of his hands over his eyes.

 _“God,”_ he whispered. “Only Nia promised, but they _all_ \- I’m going to _kill_ Cass.”

* * *

They hadn’t really expected to be escorted out of the palace after dinner.

It only made sense, didn’t it, that if you were traveling and someone had you for dinner, that they’d offer you a place to stay?

But as dinner had finished, Zorya had stood and announced that she- as a member of the Hunt who, unlike her sister and brother-in-law, had taken on no obligations to Buyan and Kitezh since the Erlkönig was killed- would be accompanying them on their way to kill the demon. Now if you could follow me back to the stables?

Amphitrite came with them to the stables, stroking Arion and murmuring quietly to her son as everyone else got re-saddled and Nia stood around awkwardly, trying to adjust to the new dynamic created with the horse by knowing his personal history. Kem-Essuru, at least, had taken flight again as soon as she’d brought him into the stable, and was now perched in the courtyard, waiting.

“There will be a well, in your travels,” Amphitrite told Nia after she’d mounted, enfolding the loose ring she’d been playing with into her hand. “When you come to it, drop this in. And remember me to Venice.”

“I will,” Nia said, and slipped the ring on her ungloved hand so she wouldn’t lose it; and the four of them rode back out into the city and under the walls, going again over the water. As the light faded, there came a faint glow from Zorya who, in regular lighting, had looked simply washed out, hair and eyes gray, skin pale. Now, in the darkening sea twilight, she came alive with a faint golden illumination, enlivening everything about her and shining against the metal of her lance.

“Where are we going?” Heinrich asked. “To the Jägerskov?”

“Not yet,” Zorya said. “We go to see Seppo Ilmarinen first, and Ly Erg. We’ll show you everything else you need to know.”

The hooves of their horses _crunch_ ed as they stepped from the water to the seashelled beach, and she pointed to their left, at a darker area atop the small cliffs that rose in the distance. There were little sparkles of light there, flitting back and forth behind tree trunks.

“ _That’s_ the Jägerskov,” she told them. “ _Here_ is Lintukoto, the Land of the Birds.”

It was a little difficult to see, in the near-night, but the rolling plains were lit by swarms of fireflies and there were soft calls of nocturnal birds in the grass.

In the distance, cresting a low hill, was again- this time, brightly lit from within and flanked by a windmill- a cottage.


	27. 2052: November

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Warnings this chapter for death-by-shooting, brief body horror/gore, and intimations of sexual violence)

Technically, the skyscraper was probably built with illegal income. Navin Technologies had gotten away with their gifted fortune by the simple expedient of never reporting anything to a government, and never offering stock, though the price of a share would be one of the highest-trading on the market, so they would have no stockholders to report to, either. The quick move from bureaucratized, structured Wales to undergoverned, chaotic Berlin had made the company possible.

It had been Ásdís’s idea to move; and she’d been the one to organize it. She reconciled herself to this incredibly-dubious act by reminding herself every so often- like now, looking out the wide windows of the CEO’s office- that they’d helped to contribute to the rebuilding of the city. The majority of the construction since the Fire had been for the Olympics, with Navin Technologies facilities and the apartment housings Ásdís had decided to help the city pay for making up almost all of the rest of it.

The apartment housing stood mostly empty. People were leaving Berlin; not returning. Hopefully, the reintroduction of the federal government in the city, under General Beilschmidt’s joint armed forces-intelligence purview and the new space program, would do _something_ good for it.

She had a brief vision of some future-Berlin, reborn after the Fire as a smaller, more working-class, military-industrial-research city, Stuttgart in the south and the reputations of Munich and Geneva and Vienna stealing what cultural and artistic glory it had managed to accumulate.

The only reason she entertained it beyond a few moments was because it was a good distraction from Serafina DiAngeli.

As the date of the space launch approached, it was impossible to avoid the Pict Princess. She had been largely absent the last four years as Navin Technologies built itself into a powerful international company- and now that it could serve its purpose as her cover on Earth, she was back.

“I _would_ market them,” Cassiel was saying, waving at one of his ears to indicate the magical-technological devices he’d put together and disguised as hearing aids so he could do away with having to take a translator with him everywhere.

Ásdís wasn’t sure what had happened to Payton, or the few other translators they’d ended up hiring. They’d just been _gone_ one day, out of the offices and off the payroll, contact information no longer available, about the time that Serafina had started to come around more often.

She had dark suspicions about the connection between that.

“Tomoko insisted on it,” he continued. “But Øystein said there was no way to disguise this as purely technology. The interface between the microphone and the mind is all magic. It doesn’t actually connect to the brain, it goes straight to the… the soul, the part inside that gives words real _meaning_. The only thing ‘technological’ about it is the mancer converter-”

“The what?” Serafina asked.

“The-”

Cassiel said something, something that wasn’t in any human language that sounded just _wrong_ to Ásdís. She didn’t think humans could actually make some of those sounds- but if anyone could have figured out how, it probably would have been Cassiel.

“Ah,” Serafina said. “You were calling it the _‘magic gathering bit that we’re pretending is a battery’_ before.”     

“I came up with a better name.”

You couldn’t really say that what happened next was a perfunctory knock, because what Prussia really did was bang his fist against the door once, then fling it open and stalk through, focused on the desk.

For a split second, Ásdís felt a wash of relief. The Nations had figured things out, they’d noticed something was _wrong_ with the company, with Cassiel and with Serafina DiAngeli-

But he ignored Serafina completely and strode around the desk to grab his son and drag him out of his chair.

“Hey-!”

“Are you the translator?” Prussia demanded, glaring at Serafina.

“Oh no,” she said, putting on the bright, slightly-clueless happy face she had, for some reason, decided was ‘default unobtrusive human’. “It’s so wonderful, Mr. Navin was just telling me how he doesn’t need one any longer?  Isn’t it _amazing!_ ”

Prussia turned the glare onto his son, who only pointed at his ear and mouthed _‘magic’_ at him.

“Excuse us,” the Nation said stiffly. “But my associates and I need to have a _discussion_ with Mr. Navin about some choices he’s made.”

“Of course!” Serafina beamed.

For a moment, just before Prussia slammed the door behind them, Ásdís saw Norway, Romania, and England, accompanied by his granddaughter, in the hallway, waiting.

* * *

Nico and Diana had talked it over and decided against actually setting foot in Naples. Instead, Nico had e-mailed his sister and asked her and her husband to look for somewhere outside the city for the group of them to stay.

Nikephoros, being as he was the accountant for a Neapolitan tourist agency, had immediately thought of short-term rentals. Ditta spent some days browsing through the real estate listings of the firm she worked for, and the listings other agents had requested, and together they found a place about an hour east of the city, about as rural as you could get without spending far too long in a car.

So Nike and Ditta rented small vacation house for the week and drove out the day before Nico and Diana were supposed to come into the airport at Amalfi. Apollonia and Ercole tired themselves out exploring, and were awake and bouncing for their aunt and uncle’s arrival the next day.

It was a pleasant place, though they didn’t go anywhere that day. There were plans for later, after church the next day- a local restaurant. That night, they ate in.

Gianluca and a group of _camorristi_ sat and watched from the property across the road. When the last light in the other house went out, late at night, long after dinner, Gianluca went upstairs and got Alfeo Bottegante.

* * *

The night wasn’t too bright to sleep because it hadn’t been too bright the night before, and conditions didn’t change _that_ much. It certainly wasn’t too hot, or too cold; and there were no great upheavals in economy or society or _anything._

No, there were. Feliciano knew better than to think that. It was just the upheavals were all personal.

He’d spent the evening with Adriana and the children, as was custom. The gaping hole where Heinrich was supposed to be was more of a strain than usual, four months of lies to the people Adriana had spent her whole life with, friends and family and others who went to the synagogue with her every Friday, weighing so heavily on her mind. The children had been silent on the matter for almost as long, distressed and hurt by their father’s absence and their mother’s quiet, pained anger.

The only person Adriana talked to now without self-censorship was her uncle, their rabbi. The Pace family, as she’d told Heinrich four years earlier, _knew_ about Costa.

But they hadn’t known everything.

He’d been considering asking Rahel to come talk to the man, going back and forth on if that would harm more than help- but that wasn’t really what was keeping him up either.

Feliciano gave up abruptly and rolled out of bed, re-donned the shirt and pants he’d taken off some hours earlier, and strode through the Doge’s Palace until he was out of the building and onto the Molo, abutting the lagoon, and started to walk faster, a little faster, until he was running across the unpopulated stones and diving headfirst off the edge of island and cutting through the water, going down, down, down; looking through the dark water for the bottom, for the one place-

The length of the dive would have killed an unaided human. It was past even the best-trained of endurances- but possible for a Nation, for Venice, holding tight and fast to his life and ignoring his body as it quietly gave up and… died, technically, though he kept swimming, going through the deep not-silence of the currents with no heartbeat and carbon dioxide-saturated blood.

The rock at the bottom of the lagoon glowed, just slightly, as it had the last time he had been here, centuries ago. He whacked it with one hand as he swam by, the water dragging against him and making the final blow more of a tap, and when he twisted around and pulled himself to a stop, his bare feet settling on the pebbly bottom, the lagoon had changed into the Sea he remembered.

The Sea glowed, as no ocean on Earth did, with cool blue-green and warm gold phosphorescence, some from the rocks and some from the tiny creatures suspended in the water itself.

Venice closed his eyes and finally exhaled; then, slowly, breathed in. He could never tell if, here, there was a rush of water or air or something _else_ down his throat, or how it worked, because all it was was _warmth_ , suffusing through him as quickly and thoroughly as oxygen did, on land.

He opened his eyes and turned to face Póli Thálassas.

* * *

Mieczysław switched his speakerphone on and slid the phone to the center of the table. Lena leaned forwards eagerly.

 _‘So what’s this news you **had** to tell me over the phone?’_ Teodozja asked.

Mieczysław and Lena glanced at each other conspiratorially over the phone, then broke out into wide grins.

_‘C’mon, Miesko- **what?** ’_

“We decided on a name for the baby!” Mieczysław announced. “We’re going to name him Maciej.”

 _‘That’s nice,’_ Teodozja said, clearly unimpressed and only being polite.

“We _also_ finally convinced my sister to donate some eggs so they extracted the DNA from my semen sample last week and we are now _officially_ going to have a baby,” Lena told her.

There was silence for a moment, and then, in a wonderfully-gloating tone, Teodozja said:

**_‘No!’_ **

Mieczysław started laughing at the blatantly gleeful scandal in his ex-girlfriend’s voice.

“Yep!” he said cheerfully. “My sister-in-law finally unbent!”

 _‘That’s **great!** ’ _Teodozja continued. _‘So Maciej is coming in July sometime, then?’_

“Mid- to late July!” Lena said brightly.

 _‘So you’re going to tell your mother you’re married now, right?’_ Teodozja asked. _‘Because you hide having a relationship when you’re halfway across the country, but I don’t think you can do that with a baby.’_

“We have nine months,” Mieczysław hedged. “Maybe even ten. Eleven. With luck we have a whole year.”

**_‘Miesko-’_ **

“You know what she’s like with Grandfather,” he said. “The skirts and the hair and the makeup and- all of that, that was the start of that. We don’t want to know what she’ll say to Lena until we have to.”

“ _Pan_ Łukasiewicz said I could have a job as his PA,” Lena put in. “I’m taking it once Maciej is born.”

 _‘That’s a lot of traveling to do if you have a baby,’_ Teodozja said doubtfully.

“Only in his Warsaw office,” Lena told her. “His other secretary is going into semi-retirement so he’ll take them along if he needs someone on long trips, or manage it himself. He told me it would be _‘good practice’_. And once Maciej gets older, I could go on the longer trips.”

 “ _Speaking_ of babies,” Mieczysław said, sliding into a new topic. “Should we be expecting one from _you?_ ”

**_‘WHAT?’_ **

“Well, it’s only that the tabloids are _utterly_ convinced of the torridness of your scandalous sexual affair with Armas Väinämöinen,” Mieczysław said, pretending an innocent tone. “I am _surprised,_ Dosia, he’s like, thirty. _I_ thought you went for men your own age.”

 _‘He’s thirty-two,’_ Teodozja said.

Mieczysław sat in shocked silence for a moment before exclaiming:

“You really _are_ having a relationship!”

 _‘We are **not!** ’ _she insisted. _‘ **I’m** in Stuttgart and the new government’s in Stuttgart so your grandfather asked me to talk to him and he needed some space that wasn’t in the office dealing with the whole mess of Vereinigtenrepublik Germanenlanden so we do it over coffee and talk about a bunch of things that **aren’t** work too!’_

“So you’re telling us _Pan_ Łukasiewicz has you going on dates with him?” Lena teased gently.

_‘I’m **twenty** and **he’s** thirty-two, Roksana calls him ‘Mr. Armas’, they are **not DATES!** ’_

“He’s met Roksana?” Mieczysław asked. “Dosia, I hate to break it to you, but you are _totally dating him._ ”

 _‘Sometimes he comes with me to pick her up,’_ Teodozja said, ignoring him. _‘And we **couldn’t** date, it would be a political mess.’_

“So you’re the mother of Poland’s first great-grandchild and his not-actually adopted daughter,” Lena said. “Wouldn’t that make the _‘dating a foreign politician’_ _less_ of a problem and more of an international diplomatic advantage to both sides?”

_‘He’s Sweden and Finland’s son.’_

“What on Earth is he doing working for a foreign government, then?” Mieczysław asked, after a moment.

_‘I don’t know. And even if I had **nothing** to do with Pan Łukasiewicz- he grew up knowing the royalty of Scandinavia. I came into his office one time and he was trading amusing staff anecdotes with the Crown Princess of Norway and her wife. **I’m** a teenage mother who got kicked out of her house by her family and dropped out of school. The only reason I’m not **dead** or whoring for some pimp is because I bungled breaking into the right house.’_

“You know you’re good enough for him, right?” Mieczysław said. “You’re good enough for anybody. Well, there are some people who aren’t good enough for _you,_ but I don’t think you associate with them anyway.”

 _‘He doesn’t have **time** for a relationship,’_ Teodozja mumbled. _‘He’s trying to create a government for something like a billion people.’_

“He has time enough to have coffee with you and pick up a small child from daycare whom he has no relationship to whatsoever,” Lena told her bluntly. “ _Date this man_.”

“How much do you want to, Dosia?” Mieczysław asked.

 _‘A lot,’_ Teodozja admitted.

* * *

There was a half-finished conference room down the hall from the CEO’s office. The wood floors were sanded but unstained, and the drywall wasn’t painted yet, but the electricity had been installed and the windows were complete.

That’s where Prussia dragged his son. England, Norway, and Romania- the witnesses- and Eglantine- who was there at her grandfather’s bequest, to witness this lesson- followed.

Cassiel tried to bat his father away, but the Nation was too strong for that. Prussia only released him when Norway closed the door, giving them some privacy.

“Where should we start?” Prussia asked his son.

“I’d like to know why you dragged me out of my office,” Cassiel said.

Prussia folded his arms in front of him and glowered.

“Is it going to be your unthinking self-centeredness or your utter conviction that you know everything?”

“I’m _not_ and I _don’t,_ ” Cass said. “It is _actually_ impossible to know everything. And I don’t see what this has to do with anything.”

“Your _cousins-_ ”

“People are _still_ upset about that?” he exclaimed. “It’s been four months! They wanted to go, I got them there, that’s the end of it.”

“No it’s _not,_ ” Prussia hissed. “You had _no idea_ what you were doing and _now_ they’re rushing headlong into a disaster!”

“I knew _exactly_ what I was doing, I had directions,” Cassiel retorted. “And it’s hardly _my_ fault if they got themselves into trouble. They’re adults. They’re responsible for their own actions.”

“Funny you should say that,” Romania said.

“Those directions were about how to get to the afterlife!” Eglantine burst out.

“Quite,” England added bitingly. “And _you_ followed them, knowing that.”

“Sounds like premediated murder to me,” Romania said.

“Now that is just _ridiculous!_ ” Cassiel protested. “They’re not _dead!_ You _know_ they’re not dead!”

 “We’re not expecting them to come _back,_ either!” Prussia snapped.

“ _Regardless_ of what we know to be true,” Norway said, cutting them both off. “ _You_ did not know what would happen to them once you completed your ritual. In fact, the only information you _had_ was that it would send them to the afterlife. That, essentially, you would be _killing_ them.”

He tried to stare Cassiel down.

“And yet,” he said, as Cassiel continued to meet his focused gaze and betray no implication of being shamed or intimidated. “You did it _anyway._ ”

“Three years ago Zell told me: _‘I bet you can’t figure out what happened to my father’_ ,” Cassiel said, folding his arms as he got defensive. “And I told her that of _course_ I could and _she_ told me to _prove_ it so _I did._ I don’t think any of them would have been particularly upset to end up dead if they got Germany at the end of it.”

“Germany _doesn’t exist-_ ”

“This whole denial thing you have going isn’t doing your emotional state any good, _Vater,_ ” Cass admonished. “You aren’t going to make things work any better with Germanenlanden by insisting Germany is anything more than dead. You’re probably just making it worse.”

 _“My brother,”_ Gilbert snarled, backing his son up against the windows. “ _No. Longer. **Exists!** _ Lovino came back from going to _beg_ for them back- and you know what’s happened to them? They’ve been _trapped_ into going after person who _destroyed_ him!”

“Ha!” Cass exclaimed, expression triumphant. “So then it worked! I got them their answer!”

Prussia stared at him for a few long moments, then stepped away and pointed to the door.

“Get back to your office,” he ordered, disgusted.  

* * *

Ditta had no idea how long she’d been asleep before she was suddenly awoken by a hand twisting in her hair and another slapping over her mouth as she was dragged out of bed, head first. The room was still dark, but she could see other figures yanking Nikephoros off the other side of the bed, and a dull shape of a gun being pulled.

She started to kick, trying to do _something_ if not get away, she couldn’t _think_ the fear was clogging up her mind and then someone grabbed her ankles and she managed one more half-kick before someone ran a hand up the inside of her leg and she shuddered violently, trying to yank her feet away from her captor and close her legs, but she was being bodily carried by her head and feet out of the room and down the hall to the stairs and one of her children screamed, she couldn’t tell which, and her fear spiked suddenly.

The stairs and kitchen passed too fast to make much of an impression, and then they were outside in the cold night air and the people holding her threw her down to the ground, where she smacked her head against the dirt and her entire skeleton jarred. Tiny natural debris, bits of twigs and small pebbles and little clumps of earth scraped across her bare arms without breaking skin. She drew her legs up and together immediately, staying hunched over as much as possible as she pushed herself up enough to look around.

Nikephoros was shoved to the ground some ways off to her side, and one of the men kicked him in the stomach to keep him down. She saw her children next, dropped between her and him, one of the men holding a gun loosely in their direction. One of the thugs put a foot on Nikephoros’ head and said something Ditta couldn’t hear, pointing another gun at the children.

Someone grabbed the back of her nightshirt and yanked her up onto her knees.

“Don’t try to run,” the _camorristi_ threatened, and she could feel the press of yet another gun to ridge of her spine, right at the base of her neck.

A man who looked vaguely familiar came out of the house next, with Nico. He was slightly taller than her brother and had his arm wrapped around his neck so Nico’s feet couldn’t rest flat on the ground. His other arm was bent around her brother’s waist, the barrel of a gun pressed awkwardly into his gut.

Immediately after, a different man, older, his gun hanging casually in one hand and pulling Diana along by the other, exited into the yard. He and the other man traded captives, so the vaguely familiar one held Diana in a one-armed hug, trapping her arms.

The older man, the one who was probably in charge, held Nico with one hand and punched him in the face with the other, fist closed around the grip of his gun. Nico jerked with the force and the man let him go so he fell to the ground.

 _“Get up!”_ the man roared, now holding the gun with both hands. _“Get **up,** Agresta!”_

It took Nico a few moments to stagger back to his feet, but he did.

 _“You thought you could get away with this?”_ Alfeo Bottegante demanded.

 _“Papà!”_ Diana begged. “ ** _Please;_** not the father of your grand-”

Bottegante pulled the trigger on his gun twice. Nico’s head shot back with the _cr-crack_ , the close shot blowing out the back of his head in a thick spray of blood and brain and bone.

* * *

Póli Thálassas had grown from the inside out.

At the city’s center was the first settlement, the grotto Amphitrite Kataiis had had for herself from time untold, slabs of sea-floor rock at the edge of the deepest crevasse of the canyon system that splintered the seabed, angled and moved and stacked.

From this stone heart, coral and clam reefs had taken root, spreading to eventually reach other rock outcroppings, some small, some towers and pillars. This was a colored riot, a maze of light and dark and currents. Great plants, ferns and weeds and unnamed things, sprouted long and tall in the upper reaches where the city climbed towards the surface- at its greatest height breaking it, creating a reef line half-submerged by waves and tides- while their smaller, ghost-white cousins clung more like lichen or moss and shrubbery around the bottom.

There were bones, too, whale and shark and seal. Ages past, the first sea serpent had died, sprawled across the canyon, and the whole skeleton still laid there, a tangle of bones anchored by coral and clams, it’s ribs trailing vine-like plants down into the unlit depths of the canyon where they fluttered and tangled in the currents, exploding violently in motion when the great Sea creatures, squids and leviathans and serpents, shot through the crevasses on their way about their lives.

Giant skeletons breached other crevasses, other places, like the bridges connecting Venice’s islands over the canals; but none were as dramatic as that of the First Serpent, whose gaping jaw created the entrance to Amphitrite Kataiis’ home.

Feliciano found himself still known, in Póli Thálassas. As he entered the city, half-swimming, half-walking, nereids flowed about him, chattering and clicking and voicing the long, low croons of their language that he half-remembered, not quite well enough to comprehend but enough to understand their interest and surprise. Further in, the shoal was disrupted into frantic, blinding motion by the arrival of merpeople, their sleek dark faces narrow, the naturally-judging look of them unhelped by the variety of eyes and billowing fin-hair. The merpeople flowed more than swam, easy and languid, watching silently, sometimes close, sometimes far.

Then came the shimmering ribbony undines, billowing and ruffling in a way that always had Feliciano thinking of jellyfish, but swimming like the sea serpents, which the eldest of the undines could rival in size. They were not aloof, just naturally unconcerned with him, and came accompanied by the mundane assortment of ocean life, plain fish and seahorses and eels and shrimp, dolphins and hippocampi playing together, baiting passing sharks and orcas. The cautious vodyanoy, closer to the great crevasse, avoided looking at him; but the sirens sneered tauntingly at him, sing-song whispering as he passed, the sound losing its meaning just as it crossed into his hearing range, promising comprehensibility if only he’d come a little closer.

Just before the crevasse, some glowing white water horses, strayed from their freshwater rivers and lakes, tore past, the nixies and naiads and potamaids in hot pursuit and company, boiling around their manes and hooves and seething in the water behind them, hissing their approval of the game.

On the skeleton-bridge itself, rusalka watched him balefully from within the ribs, their dimly-glowing eyes following his every movement. One of the bean nighe, the washerwomen, flowed around him as he approached the end of the First Serpent’s spine, hands ghosting over his clothes and plucking at them. There was a breathless rush of sound, a hint of a keening wail somewhere deep within it, before the selkies stormed the bridge, shrieking their glee at seeing him and crowding about in seal and human form, chivvying him along and butting their heads into his hands and arms and torso until he scratched ears or ruffled hair and flashed a flirting smile they could giggle and croon warmly at.

All but one of the selkies abandoned him once he set foot on the other side of the canyon, pushing himself through the water over the still-razor-sharp teeth of the dead sea serpent. The last selkie shoved him lightly on the back, pushing him towards the opening to Amphitrite’s home, and nuzzled his cheek briefly before giving him an apologetic kiss there.

Venice watched her go, flipping her legs like the tail she had in her seal form, before turning and entering the darkness.

* * *

Lithuania took a deep breath as he walked down the hallway to steel himself, and pushed open the door to Russia’s office like he belonged there.

His son looked up from behind his desk, eyes narrowing as he saw him.

“Is he busy?” he asked.

“No,” Pavel bit out; and Lithuania kept right on walking, not stopping until he’d made it into Russia’s office and the door had closed behind him and he was standing right in front of the other Nation’s desk.

Ivan peered at him behind a thin pair of reading glasses Toris didn’t remember having seen before. Styles had been vastly different the last time he’d been in Russia’s home office.

“…Yes?” Ivan asked.

“I’m here to apologize about my behavior,” Toris forced himself to say, focusing on a spot a little to the side of other man’s head. “While Natalya was dying. I let my grief and my own delusions get the better of me and I acted atrociously towards you. I was insensitive and purposefully malicious.”

The silence stretched as Ivan stared at him with an air of blank puzzlement.

“This is true,” he said after some time. “You were very nasty.”

“And,” Toris said, taking another deep breath. “I didn’t treat your sister properly. I cared more about what I _wanted_ her to feel than what she _actually_ did.”

Russia frowned, lips thinning.

“You did,” he said. “I’m not certain you deserved her, but you gave her what she wanted. Security. Children.”

“I have should have done better,” Toris said. “And I’m sorry.”

Ivan nodded to himself.

“I accept,” he said, eyes dropping back to his paperwork momentarily.

Lithuania felt all the tension drain out of him suddenly. He’d walked in expecting a fight, or more hurt feelings, or-

“You don’t forgive that easily,” he blurted, and immediately wanted to take it back.

Russia looked back up at him.

“You are not the only one seeing Schumacher,” he reminded Lithuania dryly. “And what good is holding a grudge? I cannot do anything about it.”

“Oh,” said Toris.

“Is that all you had to say?” Ivan asked; and when Toris nodded, he stood and extended one arm towards the door, a clear invitation to be escorted out.

Pavel looked up briefly when his uncle and father exited the room, then immediately looked back at his work when Ivan quirked an eyebrow at him, his shoulders hardening into a tense line.

Lithuania faltered a few steps further away as he realized Russia had stopped walking.

“If grudges are not good for me,” Ivan proclaimed. “Then they are good for no one. Pascha, take the day off. Spend time with your father.”

Pavel’s head snapped up, mouth partly open- perhaps in shock, perhaps in the beginnings of a protest.

“No!” Ivan said. “No arguing! You have the day off! Go for lunch, or wander the city, or whatever you will do. But _talk_ to each other.”

* * *

“The date for the launch is twenty-ninth of next month, right?” Serafina asked; and Ásdís desperately wished the alien wouldn’t speak to her.

“Yes,” she answered brusquely, trying to convey a distance to the conversation.

“Oh, come _on,_ Ásdís!” Serafina pouted. “Don’t be _rude!_ Be happy!”

A slow, tooth-bearing smile split her face as Ásdís didn’t reply, trying to come up with a reason to leave.

“It’s not like I’m going to _eat_ you, after all.”

“Where’d you get that face you’re wearing, then?” Ásdís challenged, unthinking; and immediately tried not to flinch. She wasn’t successful.

“A trafficked sex worker,” Serafina told her. “She was _desperately_ unhappy. This is was a great improvement to her life.”

“You can’t just _take_ people!” Ásdís snapped, rage starting to war with fear. “They’re not… _disposable!_ ”

“Certainly there were people who thought she was,” Serafina said, tone completely reasonable. “I _saved_ her. She’s not unhappy any longer. Or the other women they’d taken. I’m not the only one who needed cover.”

“You didn’t _‘save’_ anyone!” Ásdís growled, trying not to think about the fact that there were _other_ Pict running around, looking like humans, that she didn’t know about. “You just _stole_ them again!”

“It’s better than what they had so you have no reason to be upset,” Serafina said. “Anyway, she _agreed_ when I told her I would get her out of the life.”

 _And did Payton and the others agree to anything or did you just take them?_ Ásdís didn’t ask; and instead said: “You and Cassiel were _made_ for each other, weren’t you?”

And then Cassiel re-entered the room, looking mildly exasperated, followed some seconds later by his father, who ignored his son and Serafina to get directly into Ásdís’ face and hiss:

_“Keep him from fucking anything else up!”_

There was a moment, then, when Asdis knew with suddenly clarity that there would never be a better chance to tell the Nations about Cass and Serafina and the Pict and what the space program was _really_ about-

But Serafina was still _smiling;_ and _yes_ Prussia was here and England and Norway and Romania but the Nations hadn’t been any good against the Pict _last_ time, had they?

“We’re terribly sorry for interrupting your meeting,” England was saying to Serafina. “It wasn’t our intent to intrude, Ms…?”

“DiAngeli,” Serafina said, smiling sunnily. “And sometimes these things happen, England! I understand.”

The room went very quiet for a moment.

“You know, I was _wondering_ about you,” Eglantine said. “What _are_ you?”

Serafina’s smile shrunk a few fractions, turning more sly and teasing.

“Three guesses,” she allowed.

 _Pict!_ Ásdís screamed inside her head, unable to convince her mouth to work.

Romania peered at her critically for a few long moments.

“Not a vampire,” he pronounced. “Not a werewolf. No sort of undead.”

England looked between her and Eglantine.

“Tylwyth Teg,” he decided on.

Serafina shook her head.

“ _‘DiAngeli’_ ,” Ásdís heard Norway mutter, before raising his voice to proclaim: “Slyph.”

Serafina shook her head again.

Romania tipped his head sideways at a slight angle and stood there, thinking, for a couple long minutes.

“Lightning spirit,” he finally said.

“No,” Serafina replied. “But I will swear this to you: I bear no ill-will to anyone on this planet.”

“Well,” England said stiffly, eyeing Cassiel suspiciously. “I suppose we will have to hold you to your word.”

* * *

Nico had realized what had happened as soon as he woke up, even before he recognized the man who’d grabbed him as his father-in-law’s second-in-command, Gianluca.

 _They weren’t supposed to know we were coming,_ was the only thing he could think. _Papá got those tickets himself._

Too soon he was out in the backyard and there were guns everywhere and then Alfeo Bottegante punched him in the face with his fist and the grip of his gun and he fell to the ground, head ringing and the inside of his mouth all bloody. He processed Bottegante’s yell of _‘get up!’_ and that was it, even though there were more words.

He swayed for a moment, hunched over on his hands and knees, trying to form a coherent thought. There was- Zell had been in something like this once, she’d done something-

Magic followed the adrenaline as he managed to stand, still trying to focus and plan and or _something;_ maybe he could do _something_ but _what_ he had done no magic large-scale and if he didn’t get everyone at once they’d just shoot somebody else and he _couldn’t_ let that happen no one could-

The _cr-crack_ was deafening but only for a moment became _pain_ and a strange white-dark black-light and he could _feel_ the back of his skull explode but everything after that was too distant and too close at the same time and now there was no thought at all, just feeling and instinct and there was nothing to do nowhere to be and it was not falling or floating or physicality because everything was just gone gone gone the world did not exist but there was not nothingness because he _was_ and there was nothing but and the burning traceries of something like a body but not at all one really, not one properly at all it was more an idea and an abstract of the universe perhaps like what the mathematics and the harmonics behind the universe could be if you could _be_ them and that burning was Nico and the universe and everything all at once and it was _all he had_ so he reached for the burning and the structure as flimsy as it seemed and he found it titanium-hard and sharply freeze-burning as he soldered himself to the structure and there were _things, people,_ he could find Ditta and Nike and Diana and Apollonia and Ercole and every single _camorristi_ and the people in the houses far down the street and in the towns and the small animals and the large animals in the wilder areas nearby and the slow momentum of tectonic plates and the age of the rocks and sucking root systems and the poison in the soil and

When he _gasped_ back to life he could taste the difference between the nitrogen and the oxygen and the methane argon helium neon water and the night wind was leaving burning trails in the sky he could see through the lattice of his fingers still clutching the entry wounds of the bullets and beyond the stars were terrifying in their precision and vastness and he rolled over to hide from them and he could feel the little whispers of things reconnecting in his brain, the not-really-almost-nothing-like-a hum of neurons firing and- and-

He had, there were, people and guns and _threats-_

The impact of more bullets, rapid and uncounted, forced him back to the ground as he started to stand.

* * *

Amphitrite Kataiis’ rooms were dark, in the beginning, but the heart of the city was illuminated with blue- and teal-white bioluminescence after the first, semi-outer chamber. They were very bare, compared to the outside, nothing but the dark gray slabs of bedrock, pulled up from the sea bed to for  a somewhat-narrow, winding, angular unequal triangle, sometimes broken into more square areas or with the long edge switching directions between the divided areas of the rooms.

When he reached the largest room, something like a grand hall and something like a throne room, adorned here with abalone and mother-of-pearl and purple-black clamshell plates interspersed with amber and gold strips pressed into the stone walls, Feliciano knew he was close.

To reach Amphitrite’s personal room, he had to go to an antechamber and swim up, twisting through a turn that changed the channel into a new hallway that opened up into the personal room, not a bedroom because it lacked a bed but not a sitting room because sitting rooms could not stand alone. A fissure in the stone had been enlarged, pushed apart top and bottom to make a window over the canyon out front. The ripples from where the stone had been compressed created a natural sort of decoration to the far wall, which otherwise held only large, smooth stones for seating and a sort of shallow lounging pool, like a couch scooped out of the once-melted-then-hardened sweep of stone in the near opposite corner.

Across from the lounging nest, in the far opposite corner, a flat-topped arch opened into the darkness of Amphitrite’s second room, much smaller, and bare but for a stand in the center, lit by the teal-white glow coating the ceiling.

He could see Amphitrite in this room, removing her elaborate headdress crown on placing it carefully on the stand, arranging the plates to lay just so and running her fingers through the strands of the gold rings he’d given her, every year since time uncounted, to make sure they hung properly, without tangling.

Venice had no illusions that she didn’t know he was here.

“Amphitrite,” he said quietly, stepping into the room. She’d didn’t respond, and he went to his knees.

“Amphitrite Kataiis,” he said.

“I am not certain I have words for you yet, Venice,” she said, turning; and he closed his eyes. She was still beautiful.

“I don’t know that I have the right words, either,” he told her. “I- don’t know that I deserve anything from you. But I ask your forgiveness regardless.”

“And why would I give you that just because you ask?”

Feli could picture her circling him, but didn’t open his eyes to confirm it.

“I don’t expect you to,” he said, still quiet. “I can give you a promise, but I suppose it doesn’t mean much.”

“It doesn’t,” Amphitrite agreed. “Yet.”

The feeling that word brought was hard to describe. It was either a settling of his stomach or an agitation, but he wasn’t sure which state he had already been in- only that it had changed.

“Even if you never forgive me,” Venice told her. “No matter if my promises gain any trust with you ever again, I have to tell you. You need to know. I love Ludwig- Germany. Deeply. It doesn’t matter what- whatever happened to him; if there’s anything left somewhere _to_ love, besides my memory of him. I still do.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Amphitrite said. “I _did_ meet your children- that sort of devotion is uncommon. But I also don’t particularly _care,_ if you ever loved him or not.”

Feliciano opened his eyes to that, stunned.

“What?”

“It does not matter,” Amphitrite reiterated, staring down at him. “I _know_ you love me; and even if you did not, you must still _live_ with me. We will never be separated, truly, until you die; no matter what promises you break.”

He didn’t know if he was supposed to find this reassuring, or not.

“I can begin to reestablish some trust, with you,” he said. “Just tell me what you want to have my children released from their promise; to have their lives spared. I will find a way to pay it.”

Amphitrite surged forwards, suddenly, and grabbed his face with one hand, pulling him up until their eyes were inches apart, hers boring down into his. Venice’s breath, or the whatever illusion of it he had in Póli Thálassas, caught; and the weight of her age and power was momentarily stunning for its proximity.

“You have _absolutely_ no idea what is actually going on here, do you?” she asked, voice dripping with derision. “You are _that_ divorced from me and mine and our fellow Kings’ affairs that you have not _seen_ what we are causing to happen?”

* * *

“Going out again?” Fadri asked as he left the office, pulling his coat on.

“Lunch,” he told his colleague.

“It’s too late for lunch,” Fadri informed him.

“Coffee, whatever,” Armas said. “I’ll be back in an hour or two.”

The walk to the subway wasn’t too long, and the November snow gave him something to think about besides his work. The subway station itself was crowded- Stuttgart hadn’t had time yet to adjust to the slow population boom being the new capital was generating. The cars were too warm, the windows fogged up, and it was standing room only. Armas held on to one of the passenger straps from the rail above his head and fell into the rhythm of swaying and bracing that would keep him upright.

He arrived at the daycare first, which was a little strange. Usually he and Teodozja arrived about the same time.

Today, she came a few minutes later than him. They exchanged smiles, and _‘hey’_ s, then went into the building.

Roksana rushed at them immediately, in her tiny coat and backpack.

“Are you _dating?_ ” was the first thing she said, glaring at them both suspiciously. “Because _teacher_ was reading a paper that said you _are_ and you didn’t _tell me._ ”

“We’re not dating,” Teodozja reassured her daughter, and Armas had to mentally pause a moment to process his reaction to that simple statement.

There was-

“There are some papers that tell you lies about other people because they want people to buy what they’ve said, so they lie about things that people can make fun of other people for, or be mean to them about,” she continued. “They’re called _‘tabloids’_ , and you shouldn’t listen to them.”

- _disappointment?_

_**Shit.**_

* * *

The Berlin House, as everyone else had also taken to calling it, was almost done being renovated. The entire first floor had been stripped, all the non-load bearing walls knocked down to reconfigure the space into offices. Two-thirds of the second floor, the part that had been home work areas and the master bedrooms, had been similarly redone to provide him and his direct subordinates with work space. He’d designated the largest guest bedroom as an operations room and taken over the other guest bedroom and the formerly-a-private-dining-room for his own use.

Gilbert was considering laying plans to change that. The house in Potsdam was still functional, and eventually, living at work was going to be tiring.

The first thing he did once he got back to Berlin House was take the stairs down to the basement. His people had started referring to it as ‘the Bunker’, which, to be fair, it actually was. The Soviets, back when the house had been in East Berlin, had vastly expanded and reinforced the basement as shelter for party officials.

Now, it was Ladonia’s home.

The original laptop/external storage setup was lost, now, the laptop partially exploded and reconfigured to hook up to the servers Gilbert had bought and gotten installed. The entire area was a mess of activity, Ladonia directing the action through the wireless earpieces every agent and officer were issued and expected to wear.

Gilbert’s started receiving signal as he stepped into the room.

 _‘Fadri filed the report on Austria and Switzerland you wanted,’_ Ladonia told him.

“Summarize it to me, Don,” he ordered, prowling the room to inspect everyone’s work. He was confident the Internet-Nation could handle it- he was running, constantly, separately, on at least every earpiece in the room, all the different activities actually going on in the servers themselves, and whatever he was getting involved in on the Internet.

 _‘Switzerland is still cool,’_ Don began telling him. Some of the computer people greeted him with a _‘Hello, sir’_ ; though mostly it was the agents and military officers who acknowledged him, the officers adding a salute to the _‘Good afternoon, General’_.

The computer things were beyond him, but Gilbert knew about intelligence and military work, and trusted the computer people to do things right. He paused at one of the analyst tables and flipped through a file no one was working on.

_‘He’s not being hostile, but he’s not being friendly. Telling him we are not claiming Liechtenstein did a lot to help our relations with him, personally. Tentatively, we’re labelling him as resigned to the situation. He knows he can’t get out of it, and has only a list of requests he’s passed to us through his sister.’_

“ _‘Demands’_ , I think you mean,” Gilbert said, and snatched a pencil from one of the analysts to make a note in the file. “What does he want?”

 _‘One: Continued favorable economic and military relations and protections with Liechtenstein. Two:_ _That the historical powers of the cantons be officially recognized and honored. Three: Switzerland’s standards of military training be preserved. Four: Preservation of elements of Switzerland’s government in the new government.’_

“Kind of vague there at the end,” Gilbert commented, replacing the intelligence folder and taking a pile that needed to be filed over to the cabinets. “Could you contact him discreetly, through the same channels, to ask for clarification? Sweeten by telling him Liechtenstein shouldn’t be a problem. If he presses, say the military one is just impractical and that we’ll have to see about the cantons.”

_‘By ‘discreet’ you mean ‘present myself as a nameless-but-high-ranking official’, yes?’_

“Exactly.”

 _‘Austria is more of a problem,’_ Don cautioned, moving on.

“Of _course_ he fucking is,” Gilbert muttered to himself, shutting the file cabinet harder than he had to, and momentarily made himself a note that they’d have to either expand the construction on the property or get a second location- they needed more space for Ladonia, and couldn’t have that without putting all these other people somewhere else.

It wouldn’t be such a bad thing, building more on the property. The less of the original house was left at the end, well-

The less it would feel like walking through skewed memories.

_‘He is polite, because that is his way, but he acts contemptuously, masking his anger. He and Hungary are still not speaking.’_

He was going to have to find time to talk to Erzsébet, too. He’d write it down once he got to his office.

“Stay with me, Don,” Gilbert said as he started to ascend the stairs.

The connection never wavered.

_‘It is unclear if he is angry at anything or anyone specifically, or if this is a reaction to knowing he will die, likely sometime soon. He hasn’t provided any information, or met with Fadri outside of the infrequent official meeting, during which they are always accompanied.’_

“Well, he was always a difficult little asshole,” Gilbert said. The people he was walking past took his completely out-of-context remark in stride once they recognized the not-completely-there focus of someone talking with an earpiece. “I’ll drop in on him sometime soon, see if that helps.”

 _‘I don’t think it will,’_ Ladonia said. _‘Do you want the full report?’_

“I’m sure it’s already in paper copy on my desk,” he told him. “Thanks anyway.”

The second-floor office was actually something he hadn’t changed from the original layout of the house; that and the library. On one hand, it was a matter of convenience- the operations room connected to the library and the library to the office, so it was worth having a secure corridor with the added bonus of easily-accessible reference material.

On the other hand- it had been strange. Gilbert had ordered the stripping and remodeling of his bedroom and his brother’s bedroom with only a vague sense of loss that was associated with any major change.

But he hadn’t been able to do the same to Ludwig’s home office. There had been a much larger one, downstairs, but Ludwig hadn’t used it since the Empire. Gilbert had used it, during the Soviets, but after Unification, it had stood empty. Germany had moved right into the upstairs office, bringing his computer and paperwork and some of the more important books, like the law code, and never looking back.

The paperwork had been recycled months ago; but the computer was still the one Ludwig had been using right up until the Fire, and the law code was from 2048, but he hadn’t thrown it out. He wasn’t sure he ever would.

Just as he’d predicted, the long form of Fadri’s report on Austria and Switzerland was waiting for him on his desk. He’d meant to look at it immediately, but instead he collapsed in his chair, spinning it just enough so that he was looking out the window over the house’s internal courtyard. There wasn’t much to see from this angle but bare tree branches, but it was something.

Prussia’s mind started straying to other problems. Back to his son. Serafina DiAngeli was a little worrying, and given they didn’t know where from Honalee she was from, he had no idea what she was teaching Cass.

Cass, teaching, Honalee- Ludwig’s children.

Without really thinking about it, he found himself on the phone, listening to the ringing on the other end while he waited for Rémy to pick up in Brussels.

 _‘Hello?’_ Rémy said. _‘Is this a personal call, or a business one?’_

“I-” Gilbert found he had no words, and just sighed heavily instead. He turned the chair around again so he could lean on his elbows on the desk.

“I just- I don’t know,” he said; then remembered something. “I had something to ask you about Zell.”

_‘What?’_

“She did a lot of research on what people said and thought about Nations. Did she ever tell you about anything with people who’d be, like… I suppose you’d call them _‘Nation enthusiasts’_? People who were less interested in the legal and political aspects of what a Nation meant and more into what _they’d_ done?”

There was an uncomfortable silence for a few moments.

 _‘No,’_ Rémy finally told him. _‘But I have from Miervaldis. He has something from Schumacher about… something like that.’_

“From _Schumacher?_ ”

* * *

Romano shot awake in Naples, horribly disoriented and just knowing that something was wrong _wrong **wrong**_ but he didn’t know _what,_ not yet; and then the _terror_ came and it was-

There was a _bang_ in the dark and swearing in Spanish as Antonio appeared in his room and ran into a storage chest trying to get to the lights. When they came on, they were entirely too bright and the pain was _searing,_ for a moment, in a way they shouldn’t have been, and he wasn’t falling and he wasn’t floating the sensation of _white, bright,_ was all-encompassing for a few moments before there was the _terror_ again-

Antonio grabbed him with both hands, snapping him out of the sensory flood long enough to _follow_ it, staring at his husband blankly as he tried to process everything that was happening.

 _“Ditta?”_ he whispered after a moment.

“Nico and Diana came back to visit them I paid for it we didn’t tell you since you and Nico _still_ aren’t talking and I was asleep but then he was just _gone-_ ”

Romano had gotten used to the feeling of not-having Vasco. It wasn’t an ache, and it wasn’t an empty space- more like a faint echo, a radar ping sent out and encountering nothing. Cenzo and Cato were asleep, far away, and Ditta was shoving white-static terror straight into his brain and Nico-

Lovino shot out of bed, grabbing the first clothes that came to hand as he tried to ignore the lack of anything registering when he thought _‘Nico’_ , instead shoving through Ditta’s terror to wordlessly ask _‘let me see’,_ momentarily taking her eyes once he felt her internal sob of relief, taking a part of himself to try and calm her, reassure her that he’d be there as soon as-

“I will _kill_ him,” Lovino hissed, forgoing shoes and socks to drop to his knees and root around under his bed. His hands found the long box he hadn’t touched in some years and pulled it out. “Bottegante _dies,_ tonight.”

He flipped up the top of the box and took out the shotgun, pulling slugs out of their places.

“Toño, go _get_ something, quickly-”

* * *

Nia simply enjoyed the quiet as they rode, watching the cottage and windmill get closer and closer, dipping and rising on the horizon as they went over the rolling hills. Zorya Kaschiyivna rode just head and next to her, Zell and Heinrich behind. Above them, somewhere, Kem-Essuru was flying.

There would be little to enjoy later, she figured. They were going to kill the demon Mephistopheles- the demon from the house, she was convinced. No other demon would be connected to someone named _‘Faust’_ and demand a Nation’s soul than this one.

Which meant, of course, that her other father’s silent treatment after Christmas was even _more_ pointless; because the demon had never been killed or banished back to Hell.

She tried to stifle anger she could feel building up. She’d save it, for when they confronted the demon- for now, the clear, clean feeling of having a _real_ target, a goal, of knowing the person _responsible,_ was too good not to cherish. This was the best she’d felt since… a long time.

Zell rode up next to her as they started to descend into the last wide valley before the cottage and reached over to touch her arm to get her attention.

“You shouldn’t come along to the Jägerskov,” Nia said before her sister’s hand had gotten more than halfway through the space between them. “There’s nothing you can do against a demon, Zell. You don’t know how to fight. You _or_ Heinrich. You’ll just get killed.”

“And _you_ know how to fight?” Zell demanded.

“More than you,” she replied. “I came along to protect you; and to get _Vati_ back, if we could. I- we can’t get him back. But I _can_ protect you. Stay here; or go home. But don’t come with us.”

“It’s not your decision to make,” Zell said.

“And you have Rémy and Louis to go back to,” Nia reminded her. “And Heinrich Adriana and _his_ children. I _won’t_ take you two along just to see you _destroyed._ I _won’t_ go back and tell them that.”

“ _We_ don’t want to go back and tell _Babbo_ we let you go into battle against the _demon_ he thought he sold his soul too and _you_ died!” Zell said more forcefully, in the sort of tone to start an argument; but they had arrived in front of the cottage and the door was opening.

“You two didn’t make any promises to anyone,” Nia told her quietly. “ _I_ did.”

A man, not particularly old but white-haired regardless, stepped out of the cottage. He was wearing a blacksmith’s apron over plain, simple clothes, undyed. His beard and hair were a little long and wild; and he bore a sheathed sword in his hands.

Zorya inclined her head to him.

“Seppo Ilmarinen,” she said. “I bring you Venice’s children, Nia and Zell and Heinrich. Nia has promised to destroy the demon Mephistopheles.”

Seppo Ilmarinen looked at Nia, then took a step towards her to put himself within reach and handed her the sword and scabbard.

Nia grasped the scabbard in one hand and the hilt with the other, just looking at it for a moment. The scabbard was black leather, tooled with a bit of gold decoration, and the hilt bound in the same leather, but undecorated. The crossguards were straight and colored gold, but had to be of something stronger. The pommel was inset with a dark red, uncut stone for balance, the same not-gold metal binding it in place.

She drew the sword to examine it.

It was short, not a rapier or an arming sword. It was a hunting sword, a the straight blade closer to two and a half feet long rather than the two feet that was traditional, and somewhat heavier, but not my much. Likewise, the crossguards were long, for a hunting sword; but the hilt was properly curved for it.

The blade was engraved. On the side Nia was looking at, centered down the length of the steel, it read- in German, she was interested to see- _‘you take me up’_.

She turned her hand to check the other side. Here, the engraving read _‘you cast me down’_.       

Nia would have swung it, to test its handling, but there wasn’t enough room to do that safely- and then Seppo Ilmarinen spoke.

“Your sword, Jagdsprinz.”

* * *

Lunch could have been worse.

Pavel and Lithuania didn’t really speak once they left the building, except for Pavel to ask if there was anywhere he wanted to go and Lithuania enquiring about a place he remembered liking, which, annoyingly, was one of _Pavel’s_ favorite places to go.

They’d gotten a table without speaking to each other, then attempted small talk over their drinks. They had done the weather, how their days had been so far, and a few blandly-stated facts about international events.

When the pastries came, Lithuania finally advanced the discussion topics.

“I would have come to you already,” he said. “But Roz e-mailed me to say that you weren’t ready to talk to me, yet.”

“I’m not,” Pavel agreed stiffly, and started eating his pastry.

His father looked at him, seeming a little sad, and a little tired.

“If I apologized to you now,” he said. “How would you react?”

“I wouldn’t be _happy,_ ” Pavel told him. “I don’t forgive you. You looked at me and you saw someone you could maneuver into your politics to make things easier for you. I spent _years_ trying to please you, first, then defy you. I found where I want to be, so it worked out- but you shouldn’t have tried that in the first place.”

“I shouldn’t have,” Lithuania agreed.

“And you **_hit_** _Roz,_ ” his son said, voice tightening. “You don’t _do_ that. You got _drunk_ and you went after _David, **again-**_ and then you **_hurt_** _her._ ”

Lithuania had nothing to say to that.

“You could have killed her,” Pavel continued. “You know that. And you know she was right. And even if you _weren’t_ a Nation, and would have had to put more effort into killing her than you did- she’s still a person. Worse, she’s your _daughter._ ”

His expression went very, very cold.

“Maybe Nations forgive each other for things like this,” he said. “But _I_ won’t. I’ll tolerate you, because part of my job occasionally involves interacting with you- but I don’t forgive you. We are _not_ family, you hear me?”

“Yes,” Lithuania said after a moment; and they finished lunch in silence.

Pavel went back to the office, even though he’d been given the day off; and Lithuania went home, even though he was expected back at work.

* * *

Miervaldis was sitting in Zell’s office, as had become his habit, when the phone call came.

He didn’t hear it at first, since it was at the other end of the hallway and he had the door closed. Everyone else in the office knew to leave him alone when he went into Zell’s office- they thought it was because he was taking time for himself.

And he was, technically. But he’d turned Zell’s office into the work area for what he’d been mentally calling _‘the Schumacher Problem’_.

Miervaldis had cleaned off Zell’s cork board and pinned a piece of paper that read _‘Hanna Schumacher’_ on it in the center. The URL of the website was written on a note stuck down and off to the side a bit, the two pieces connected by some thin yellow yarn he’d bought for this purpose. A print-out of the post Teodozja had made, years ago, with Zell’s business card was attached to the URL paper, which then led another string to a sheet of office stationary. From the office stationary radiated Keld Schumacher’s background check, his staff picture, and two papers, one that read _‘e-mail’_ and another that read _‘no contact’_.

Miervaldis was adding the print-outs of the last few attachments on the e-mail Schumacher had forwarded him from his sister- which Miervaldis was using more out of hope that it would somehow help rather than any set plan- when David knocked on the door.

Miervaldis put the last sheets down on the desk and opened the door just enough to talk.

“General Beilschmidt called your office but you weren’t there so he called Verena at the front desk,” David said, pointing a thumb back over his shoulder.

“Have her patch him through in here,” Miervaldis told him, and shut the door so he could hang one or two more papers on the board before the call came through.

“I’m putting you on speakerphone,” he said once the call waiting light blinked and he picked up the receiver. “That okay?”

 _‘No problem,’_ Prussia said. _‘Work?’_

“Yeah,” Miervaldis said, frowning at the last paper in his hand and deciding to stick the screenshot of the video of America dragging a car in the far top corner of the board. “What do you need?”

 _‘There’s been a… potential situation,’_ Prussia said. _‘With people who are interested in Nations. Rémy said you had something like that and it had something to do with Schumacher?’_

“There’s something like that that’s come to my attention,” Miervaldis said carefully.

_‘That mess with Anika Abt two months ago, the woman who tried to kill Dietrich in the meeting? You remember that?’_

“It’s hard to forget.”

 _‘When we searched her apartment, there were only two things we couldn’t account for- a bunch of GfL literature written under the name ‘Anthemion’_ _and an entry in her computer passwords book for someplace called ‘Hanna’s Forum’-’_

At _‘Anthemion’_ , Miervaldis had had an inkling of a feeling. At _‘Hanna’s Forum’_ , he looked blankly at the cork board he’d just finished looking together, mind churning, then switched on the office computer and typed in the URL. Using the forum’s search function, sure enough, returned a user page under the screen name Anthemion- listed as inactive, and from Germany.

“Repeat that?” Miervaldis asked, grabbing a stack of sticky notes and a pen.

 _‘It turned out ‘Anthemion’ was the penname of Xaver Kraus, one of the GfL founders,’_ Prussia said, sounding slightly annoyed. _‘He worked in the Reichstag as an intern, and died in the Fire. The other founders said he was really interested in Nations.’_

While Prussia had been talking, Miervaldis had scribbled out three notes and stuck them to the board- _‘GfL’_ , up at the top; _‘Anika Abt’_ , a little to the side of that; and _‘Xavier Kraus- Forum Anthemion?’_ between the _‘GfL’_ note and the paper for _‘Hanna Schumacher’_. Now, he took his pen and changed the _‘?’_ in the last note to a _‘!’_.

“So that’s why you called?” he asked, missing the connection that Prussia had obviously made somewhere. “Because this Kraus was interested in Nations? If he was interested, why would someone enamored with his writing try to _kill_ one?”

 _‘She gave Dietrich a note right before she tried to kill him,’_ Prussia continued. _‘It said:_ ‘We wouldn’t stand having a Nazi then and we won’t now. You should have watched the fire.’ _Dietrich has nothing to **do** with Nazis, it doesn’t make-’_

Miervaldis stood, frozen, in Zell’s office, eyes tracking from the new notes on the board to where he’d pinned up the sixth attachment from the e-mail- a color photograph of the Axis Nations and their allies, Germany in the center, clearly wearing a Nazi uniform.

If you didn’t possess all the facts, it would be easy to say that it was _Germanenlanden_ in a Nazi uniform.

Or that Germany _was_ Germanenlanden; and _hadn’t_ in fact been destroyed in the Fire…

Miervaldis slowly, carefully wrote **_‘BERLIN FIRE??!?’_** on the next sticky note and placed it between the World War Two photograph and the mess of notes about the forum members.

“You need to come over,” he told Prussia, cutting off whatever the Nation had been saying. “Right now. Zell’s office.”

* * *

Nico’s body arched backwards towards the ground as he fell, hands coming up to clutch his face. He screamed when he hit the ground, writhing and kicking in pain and Diana couldn’t scream with him because _no, no, no, **no;**_ his father had been right and they should have known better than to come back once they’d escaped the Camorra the first time they should have asked Ditta and Nike to come to _them_ this had been sheer hubris and they were all going to die; or else Nico and Nike would die and the children and Ditta maybe, but there was money to be had for women and children and her father was not above exploiting that and after _she_ had her baby, there was no guarantee for her but that _she_ would not be sold, if she was allowed to live-

Nico wasn’t screaming any longer but he had stilled and rolled over and-

And he was _getting **up-**_

 _“Why the **hell** isn’t he dead?”_ one of her father’s men yelled, the one watching Ditta, and opened fire on him again, emptying the clip. Nico slumped back to the ground under the onslaught but started to rise again as soon as the shooting had stopped and this time, when her father opened fire, almost everyone else did, as well; but this time, Nico did not fall.

She felt Gianluca tense, his jaw tighten.

 _Camorristi_ started to scream, suddenly, and the yard was not illuminated but more defined by the dull, baleful glow of gunmetal heating to its melting point, ripping like erratic wildfire through the group as some of the guns flash melted, coating the hands of the men who’d held them in liquid metal and others started to heat slowly, enough warning for them to be dropped.

Gianluca as one of the ones who dropped his gun, and now, he was trembling, uncontrollably, rattling Diana’s teeth. She ignored it easily, focused on Nico, who had stood and now took a few stumbling steps before collapsing again to the ground. The air pressure rose sharply, gaining an acidic bite from the _power_ she now recognized pressing down on all of them.

There was a horrible noise from her father and Diana’s head whipped towards him, involuntarily, and watching with a churning stomach as his skin began to slough off, his flesh peeling apart and falling away in chunks to reveal glistening wet internal organs that were rapidly shriveling up. Blood, all of it, was welling up out of his eyes and mouth.

She forced herself to look away and stared wide-eyed at the ground, trying to breathe and not think about the stench of rotting meat drifting towards her on the breeze from a couple of the _camorristi,_ now quickly decomposing where they stood, unable to make any noise, or at least any noise that could be heard over the _crack_ of their bones as they fractured and broke clean open to the marrow from the pressure and the concentrated heat eating them from the inside, warring with the rot to see which would destroy them first.

 _“La Diavola,”_ Gianluca whispered, terrified, and let her go. She could hear him running across the grass, but he got perhaps ten strides before there was a roar of utter fury and a wet _thumk_ Diana could identify as a blade cutting into flesh. Spain shot past in the corner of her tunneling vision, still roaring, brandishing a bloody battle axe.

The strange low-high _khhbheuo, khhbheuo_ echo of a shotgun fired twice was interspersed with the _cha-click_ of the shell being evicted. Two of the _camorristi_ fell; and the sound sequence repeated, with the same result, as Romano walked slowly into her field of sight, taking careful aim to kill the _camorristi_ and not hit his husband, who was taking out rage Diana would have said he’d never had on the men who had been prepared to kill some of his family.       

Diana saw the moment when Romano noticed Nico, sprawled and bloody on the grass, because the shotgun dropped from his hands and a look of abject terror came over his face.

* * *

“ _Nia_ is to be the next Jagdsprinz,” Amphitrite Kataiis spat at him. “ _Nia_ is to pay the debts she and her siblings have incurred, getting the help and information they have from us. _Nia_ is to avenge the death of Gwyn ap Llud, Jagdsprinz Erlkönig; and restore to the universe an essential balancing system!”

She shook Venice slightly.

 _“Nia,”_ she said. “Is to pay _your_ debt, the one you owe me for being a _negligent, **adulterous**_ spouse! You will _lose_ her, Venice, to us and to her new office; just as _I_ lost _you!_ All debts _she_ owes and all the debts the demon Mephistopheles owes will be fulfilled when she _destroys_ him- and if it is _she_ who dies, instead, then it repays just what is owed by you and yours, and we will find some other way to dispose of the demon. Her vengeance for her father is _secondary_ , merely a lever to maneuver her into place. Arion saw that, when they first arrived, and bore her to Ereshkigal for _her_ confirmation of that fact.”

Feliciano raised his hands to the arm Amphitrite had extended, closing his fingers around her skin near the hand she was holding him by.

“Mephistopheles?” he whispered in horror. _“Mephistopheles?”_

“If you have been as attentive as you should have, _Venice,_ ” Amphitrite hissed. “You would have learned from me the demon’s plans. You would have _known_ he coveted the power of Nations and you would have been able to _do_ something before he undid Holy Rome from the inside out! You would have prevented him from being _destroyed!_ None of this, _none of this_ pain and sorrow you have now, would have occurred!”

She threw him away, across the room, to the floor.

“I do not want to _see_ you again, Venice,” she said. “Not until Nia has come to you as Jagdsprinz; or you have buried her. In the meantime, be thankful that we let Nia settle all of the debt and that he did not ask for more from her, as we _could_ have; and think of this: was abandoning me to have _Germany_ worth the souls lost to the demon and the people it has harmed?”

* * *

The absolute last thing Schumacher expected from his day was for Prussia to burst into his office in full military uniform and a towering rage.

 ** _“YOU!”_** he roared, and Schumacher shot up out of his chair and stumbled backwards away from his desk, trying to get the wall against his back in some sort of vague notion about self-protection as the Nation advanced on him. **_“YOU-!”_**

Miervaldis came rushing in after him.

“Prussia!” he yelled. _“Prussia! **Stop!** ”_

Prussia was right up in Schumacher’s face now, and still incoherent in his fury.

“You _had_ that the _whole **fucking TIME**_ and you _didn’t-_ ”

“It’s not _actually_ evidence!” Miervaldis said quickly. “We have a lot of conjecture! We have one or two solid connections! But it’s nothing that you can build a case on, nothing you can convict anyone with- if you go running off with just _this_ you’re going to cause an international incident! You have a _government_ to think about!”

Prussia turned on him, and Schumacher relaxed, very slightly.

 _“Someone,”_ the General hissed. “Is going to _pay_ for this.”

“Of course,” Miervaldis said, tone more mollifying than serious. “But for now- you have a military and an intelligence agency to keep building. You have a space flight scheduled for about a month from now. And you’re important in turning the Provisional Government into something that will keep Dietrich from falling apart. Take some time, we’ll keep our eyes out-”

 _“We,”_ General Beilschmidt said. “Will be looking. This is a matter of _national fucking **security**_ now.”

“Of course,” Miervaldis said again, in the same tone; and Prussia went storming out again, just as suddenly as he’d come.

Schumacher didn’t find his voice to ask what had just happened until some minutes after Miervaldis had already left, closing the door behind him.

* * *

Romano fell heavily to the ground on his hands. He felt his wrists almost overextend as he rocked forwards under his own momentum, almost tipping past his new center of gravity to topple onto his son’s body.

Nico was partially on his side, mostly on his stomach, one arm folded up under his body, and Romano had the perfect angle to see the ruined, gorey mess of the back of his skull.

There was a cold tightening in his chest and a burning in his eyes as he inhaled roughly through his nose and raised one had to clear some of the matted hair from the gaping hole.

Two sons in four years, both of them horrible, violent-

He didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary until Nico’s hand tightened on the front of his shirt and pulled him down an inch or two.

Romano was looking directly into Nico’s terrified, wide-blown eyes when he whispered, horrified:

_“I **died.** ”_

“N-” he started to say, maybe in denial of that fact or maybe in denial that he could have _survived_ what he could see had happened, but his son pressed on, panicked.

“I _died!_ ” he insisted, voice going high and rapidly gearing up to be a hysterical wail. “ _I **died**_ and I- all I had was the magic so I _reached_ for what was still functioning and I didn’t let it quit and I started _fixing_ things and I could _feel **everything**_ all the _people_ and all the _land_ and I could see how everything _fit_ and how it _worked_ and I could _feel_ how the guns and the people were put together so I made them **_not_** _fit_ and-”

Nico’s word trailed into a high-pitched keen.

“Magic?” was all Romano could say; but Nico was in no shape to respond and as he gathered his son up in his arms he reached through their Nation-citizen bond as well, trying to steady him, to provide peace and calm and safety and reassurance but as soon as he touched it Nico was boiling through it, wrapping himself up in _Italy_ in a way that left Romano breathless with shock, even as he could feel Nico relax and steady, spreading out through the land and people in a way that shouldn’t have been possible but that had centered him, comforted him.

Distantly, he could feel his other children respond to the new presence, nothing consciously, but a sort of vague, low-lying miasma of slightly questioning discomfort. Romano could _feel_ Nico brushing against Cenzo’s mind, deep in sleep in Milan; and settling into Cato’s dreams in Amsterdam for a few moments before retreating; and then touching against Ditta, just a few meters away before turning to the children, then Diana, reassuring himself everyone was alive and _he_ was, that he was here-

Romano recognized the impulse. It was the impulse of Nations awakening from a death, grounding themselves again in life.

“You’re okay,” he told his son quietly, trying to reassure himself as well, more against the _wrongness_ of anyone being able to- to _use_ him the way Nico was rather than that his son was alive. “You’re okay.”

Nico was trembling, he realized, despite the grounding he was trying to give himself.

“You’re okay,” he said a third time, louder, and stroked his son’s face for a moment. “We’re going to go inside.”

It took some maneuvering, mostly because it had been some time since his children had been small enough for Romano to pick them up easily, but he managed. When they got inside, Antonio was already there, getting off the phone with the police, Ditta and Nike and their children huddled together on the couch, Nike sobbing quietly; and Diana seated on a chair, wrapped in a blanket.

Antonio caught sight of them as Lovino tried to sneak past the living room to the stairs, and for a moment, the loss and pain on his face was excruciating. Lovino shook his head, trying to convey that there was no need for grief- and then _felt_ Antonio reaching for Nico, trying to find him, and Nico had still wrapped himself up in _Italy,_ and-

And, for a moment, Lovino and Antonio could feel each other like they could feel their people, and there was a second of _fearreliefconfusionrecognitionsurprise_ and then as soon as Antonio felt Lovino begin to panic, deep in his gut, about how _wrong_ everything was, he pulled back.

Romano shot up the stairs to the bathroom. He sat Nico, now glassy-eyed with shock, down on the rim of the bathtub and stripped off his blood-soaked shirt, barely holding together from all the tears of bullet holes, dropping the ruined garment into the tub.

When Romano checked the back of his son’s head, the exit wound had completely healed over. He ran the shower head, making the water run hot, and got Nico to put his head under the water, and cleaned the blood and leftover gore out of his hair. He was left with a towel over his head and orders to dry his hair as much as he could while his father went to fetch a new shirt for him to wear.

Nico managed to walk down the stairs with assistance, and Diana and Antonio were waiting for them at the bottom. Antonio took Nico once he set foot on the ground floor, ushering him into the living room to squeeze onto the couch next to his sister, and Romano stood looking at Diana.

She opened her mouth to say something- and apology, perhaps, for her father- but Lovino reached up, took her head in both hands, and pulled her forwards and slightly down so he could kiss the top of her head.

“Go sit with your family,” he said, inclining his head slightly towards the living room. Diana looked at him, wide-eyed, for a moment, before turning to comply.

Romano followed her just long enough to reach the entrance of the room, within calling distance of his husband.

“Antonio,” he said, making up an excuse to get him out of the room. “We should go wait for the police.”

Antonio spent a moment checking to make sure everyone was going to be alright without supervision, then slipped out.

Romano grabbed his arm as soon as they were out of sight of the people in the room and started dragging him towards the front door.

“What was-” Antonio started to ask, trying to bring up the strange connection they’d had.

“Nico _died,_ ” Lovino hissed quietly. “He told me he did but I didn’t _believe_ him, but then I had a look at his shirt and it was barely holding _together_ from how many times they shot him, Antonio! He shouldn’t have lost that much blood and still be standing! He shouldn’t have been able walk, or talk; not with that many bullets through him! Not with his _brains_ blown half out!”

 _“What?”_ Spain exclaimed as Lovino pushed the door open.

“I could have stuck my _hand_ into his skull, Antonio!” Romano told him. “That’s how big the hole in the back of his head was! There are bits of brain in the bathtub upstairs and I’m _sure_ they’ll find pieces all over the grass out back! And now he’s _completely_ healed and there’s nothing but the blood in the bathtub upstairs and the gorey mess in the back yard to prove anything happened!”

“He can’t-” Spain started to say.

“He told me magic,” Lovino said bluntly. “He told me, after he _pulled himself back from **dying,**_ that he could feel _everything_ around him. That he made the people attacking him _‘not work’_. And I don’t see how fucking else to explain what the hell happened to Bottegante and some of the others! And-”

They could hear the police cars, in the distance.

“-what happened back there,” Romano continued. “Nico- I tried to reach for him, to calm him down, but _he_ pushed through the bond and- put _himself_ into Italy. He _wasn’t_ Italy, because that’s still me and Feli, but he _was._ ”

“I don’t-”

“He touched Cenzo. Cato. Ditta and her children and his wife. In the mind, soul, what-the-fuck- _ever_ it is that _we_ have of our people. He’s- like Cassiel, maybe.”

“That’s not how this is supposed to work,” Antonio said after a few moments, just as the lights of the first police car turned the bend at the furthest visible part of the road.

“After everything Cassiel’s done?” Romano said. “And England’s shit with his granddaughter? And Ereshkigal _meeting_ with Zell and Heinz and Nia? And now Nico?”

The police cars started to pull up.

“We missed something with our kids. We missed something fucking _huge._ ”

* * *

It was quiet in the Vatican around dawn, though there were people up. Like Cristoforo, those who were awake were mostly in their dawn Lauds; unless they were serving staff.

No one disturbed Cristoforo before he emerged from his rooms after he finished his prayers, so he jumped violently when there was a sudden explosion of noise just behind him. He didn’t really get up, just shot around, fumbling to stay somewhat upright on his knees just as Feliciano’s legs gave out and he crumpled to the floor, still screaming and sobbing.

 _“Felicianus!”_ Cristoforo said sharply. Usually, he’d found, having to process old languages calmed Nations down, or at least distracted them.

“The _House demon,_ ” Feliciano gasped through his sobbing, voice trembling. “The **_House demon_** _that’s_ what killed the Jagdsprinz- I went to see Amphitrite-”

Cristoforo scooted across the floor to hold his older sibling in a firm hug. Feliciano collapsed against him.

“The _House demon!_ ” he wailed. “It _killed_ the Jagdsprinz and then Amphitrite said she went and talked to it and it said that it had taken the Jagdsprinz’s power and that it was _undoing **Holy Rome**_ the _House demon_ was why Heinrich fell apart it’s why when it dragged me to Hell-”

“You don’t know that’s actually true,” Cristoforo murmured quietly. “Demons _lie,_ Feliciano, that’s what they _do-_ ”

“-I _thought_ I saw _Holy Rome_ but it was the _demon_ it was Mephistopheles _all **along**_ he **_stole HEINRICH_** and made me think I was _seeing_ him again-”

“Feli-”

“-it’s not **_gone,_** Cristoforo! _It’s still there_ it took **_LUDWIG_** that’s why he’s _gone_ we thought we _finally_ got rid of it this time but it just took _Ludwig **instead**_ and I bet it took the _other_ Germanies too-”

“Demons can’t _steal_ souls, Feliciano,” Cristoforo tried to reassure him. “You have to _give_ yourself to evil to be separated from God-”

 _“None of them **died!** ”_ Feliciano shrieked. _“The demon didn’t steal their **souls** Mephistopheles stole their **memories-** they’re **gone-** ”_

“God-”

 _“Nia-”_ he sobbed, pain tearing apart his voice. “ _Cristoforo;_ Ereshkigal and Amphitrite and _all_ of them were helping them because they were _manipulating **Nia-**_ Amphitrite said she’s going to pay _my_ debt to _her_ and my _children’s_ debt for the help they’ve gotten _and_ avenge the Jagdsprinz and Ludwig-”

Cristoforo had been going to say something else, but the implications were catching up to him and-

_“They’re going to **force** her into being Jagdsprinz! They’re going to **make** her fight Mephistopheles and it’s going to **destroy her-** my **children-** God, **please-**!”  _

* * *

It was something like midnight in Lintukoto, but not like it, really- it made no sense for the Milky Way to be in the sky, but there it was, clear and bright, the full moon caught in the wide band of silvery-white stardust and the warmer glow of the stars themselves.

The grass on this hill, some ways from the cottage- not out of sight of it, but a crest or two away from it- was long and alternately dark and light as the slight, warm breeze changed the direction of the bend of the blades, the whispering susurrus of the air through the ground cover complimented by the quiet night birds and the low, barely-audible buzz of nocturnal insects.

Nia sat on a rock on this hill, sword unsheathed and resting across her knees, staring out over the rolling fields towards the no longer visible sea.

Zorya Kascheiyivna hiked up the hill towards her, stopping a couple feet away, keeping a respectful distance.

“Why would _I_ be Jagdsprinz?” Nia asked after some time. “I didn’t know this place existed until half a day ago. I’ve been trained to use a sword, but I’ve never used it in a fight where someone was _actually_ tried to kill me. I have nothing to do with this place. Why would anyone want _me?_ ”

“The help you and your siblings have been given must be paid for,” Zorya said. “Your father has an unsatisfied debt to Amphitrite Kataiis. Honalee wants revenge on the demon; you want revenge on the demon. There are many things you can settle by doing this service, and it is not something you didn’t want.”

“I _want_ my father back.”

“You can’t,” Zorya said. “He’s gone. Revenge is all you have.”

There was silence again for a while.

“When Amphitrite was telling the story about how all this happened,” Nia said. “She mentioned a lot of… powers, the Jagdsprinz had, that came as part of the job.”

“There are many,” Zorya acknowledged. “Seeing the debts of people on their souls, the terms, the oaths and vows and duties they have-”

“I can’t do that,” Nia interrupted her, finally looking at Zorya. “I look at you and I don’t see anything.”

“You are not _officially,_ as it were, the Jagdsprinz just yet,” Zorya started to explain. “You have Arion and the sword and the leave of Ereshkigal and Amphitrite Kataiis to claim the Tree of Golden Apples and the Well at the End of the Worlds and the World Gate, all of which we will go to claim tomorrow. I have brought the horn-”

Nia remembered, briefly, the hunting horn on Zorya’s saddle.

“-and tomorrow when we go to the Tree and the Well, Ly Erg will meet us with the hounds. But the demon has the helm, still, and you will have to claim this last thing before you will be _fully_ the Jadgsprinz.”

“And then it’s just us against the demon?” Nia demanded. “I’ve _seen_ this thing before. We need more than you and me and Ly Erg.”

“There are many in Honalee who lost family and friends to the demon, when it first attacked,” Zorya reminded her. “Amphitrite told you as much. They know that there is a Jagdsprinz in the making. When you call- when the horn is sounded- they will rally to you and the demon may be destroyed.”

“But first I have to go to the demon and take the helm.”

“Yes.”

“That’s a terrible idea.”

“If it was easy, or safe, it would have been done already.”

Nia scowled at her, sharply.

“So, because it’s difficult and dangerous,” she said. “You waited around for someone more _expendable,_ someone who wouldn’t be missed by anyone in Honalee, to show up instead of trying to deal with it yourselves. These Kings- haven’t they heard of _coordination_ and _international cooperation_?”

Zorya was silent, until:

“If Venice had stayed with Amphitrite Kataiis as he should have, he would know about the demon. He could have done something, the demon would already have been destroyed, Holy Rome would be alive- and we would not be here. But we are.”

Nia snorted, the sound scathingly disdainful.

“He fucked up,” she said; and there was a world of bitterness behind that simple phrase.

“As you say,” Zorya said. “It is your duty to pass judgment as it is due.”

“Zell and Heinrich,” Nia said after a few moments. “I told Ereshkigal I would make it _my_ duty to right the wrongs done. But they didn’t promise anything. They aren’t obligated to come along, to fight- are they?”

“No,” Zorya said.

“Good,” Nia replied.

Again, nighttime quiet; one woman sitting on a rock and the other standing, calf-deep in grass.

“I don’t want to talk to anyone until tomorrow,” Nia said abruptly, after a time. “Leave me.”

Zorya inclined her head, once, in acknowledgement- then bowed.

“As you wish, my Prince,” she said; and left.


	28. 2052: December

The coffee shop knew their orders by now- he came here every day, practically, even when there wasn’t a scheduled meeting; and more often than not she came as well, anyway. So he just nodded to the barista as he came in and dropped the money on the counter and the man started to make up the orders.

The interior of the shop was warm, not hot, and would soon be packed to capacity. The shuffle of employees was familiar as their daily preparations, restocking beans and milk and sugar and syrup and baking more pastries and cake. One of the busboys came by and he smiled at her a moment while she restocked the napkins on the table.

The text came just as Armas was about to get up and get the coffee.

Teodozja would be slightly late. This was not what he wanted. Slightly late meant he had time to think and he was trying not to do that, not about this- the government was thing, his emotional life another.

She was twelve years younger than him. She had a child. She was in college. She was a foreign national and the daughter of a foreign Nation. There were many more reasons for this to go wrong than for this to go right.

He quickly downed some of his coffee as she walked in, so he had an extra moment to think.

“What are you doing for Christmas?” Armas asked once they’d said hello and she’d sat down. It was the first thing he could think of to say- it was the only question he’d heard all month, it seemed like, and the day itself was only just over two weeks away.

“I’m staying here,” Teodozja told him. “In Stuttgart. My- father is bringing Mieczysław and Lena along and they’re going to stay a few days in a hotel. We’ll spend Christmas together.”

“I’m not going home, either,” Armas said; and for a moment the concept of _‘home’_ was a strange one, because he’d always thought it meant Stockholm and Helsinki, but the first image in his mind when he said _‘home’_ was the view of his apartment building in Stuttgart, and not his parents’ houses. “I was thinking maybe I’d invite my parents here.”

“Maybe we could meet up for it?” Teodozja ventured, and Armas suddenly felt very enthusiastic about this. “There hasn’t been a European Christmas Party since-”

She made a little hand-wave, not willing to speak of it.

“-so maybe it’s time to start trying again?”

“I’d like that,” he said. “If everyone else agrees.”   

It took them a moment to realize they were just sitting there facing each other, smiling. Once they did, it got a little awkward.

* * *

There was silence in Prussia’s office once Lovino finished talking, and he curled his hands into the fists under the table. England was sitting very stiff and straight in the chair next to him, expression stony.

Prussia leaned forwards over his desk and pressed his palms to his eyes, holding them there for a moment before shoving them back into his hair, head hanging towards the desk.

“Shit,” he muttered.

England swallowed.

“He _really-_ ”

“We felt it,” Lovino said bluntly. “Nico died. Then he found the magic that hadn’t left his corpse yet and pulled himself back to life.”

“And then brutally murdered some gangsters.”

Lovino’s fists tightened more.

“I didn’t want this for my children,” he hissed. “Cenzo’s the only one, now, who doesn’t know about- about _fear,_ and _pain,_ and _death-_ ”

“And magic will just bring them more,” England said.

“Not Cass,” Prussia growled. “ _Cass-_ ”

“Is probably in something too deep for his own good,” England interrupted. “We don’t know who that DiAngeli woman is, and… well. I highly doubt we’re on good enough terms with Honalee to go around asking questions about who’s been teaching him.”

“I’m still on good terms with Kore Despoina,” Lovino offered.

“And I _personally_ insulted Queen Nicnevin in her own court,” England retorted. “And your _brother-_ ”

He just let that hang.

“No, I don’t think we’ll find much welcome where we need it.”

“Well, who taught Nico?” Prussia asked.

“No one,” Lovino said. “I asked. No one. He found out he had it on accident, and then he taught himself, in secret.”

“That’s _no_ way to deal with-!” Prussia exclaimed, sounding furious.

“Well how the _fuck_ do you think _Cass_ learned shit about this?” Lovino demanded. “He was always into the Vatican Archives for the esoteric fuckery Cristoforo’s got locked away down there, getting his hands on any book on Neopagans and New Age Magick, breaking into England’s library-”

“At least the magic explains how he kept getting in,” England muttered.

“-and the thing in the House, not knowing about hedgewitchery magic-breaking and his own limits! He’s self-taught _too,_ you idiot! If Nico wouldn’t come to _me_ about magic, when I made sure I taught my children about their heritage, when he _knew_ I knew about Strega folk magic; why the _hell_ would _Cassiel_ go to the _Vatican_ and _Israel?_ You know your Scripture just as well as I do.”

“Eglantine’s being taught properly, at least,” England said. “And she’s… Fey, so there’s a certain inborn sensibility about it that there’s not with this.”

“We don’t even know what ‘this’ _is,_ ” Lovino snapped. “We don’t know _shit_ about what _‘this’_ is!”

“ _I_ have something,” England disagreed. “Nico and Cassiel both have two Nation parents, biologically speaking. Nations- we’re very magical. It’s just _most_ of you don’t both to _do_ anything with it.”

“ _Gianna_ never showed any of this,” Prussia argued. “Nia and Heinz, either. Or János.”

“ _János_ got buried by an Alpine avalanche and was recovered after the time when they expect people to have died from that,” England said. “Lavinia and Heinrich are running around in Honalee, and apparently haven’t gotten themselves killed yet. Gianna survived living with Cassiel, and you will not be able to convince me that, through all his time self-teaching, he wasn’t accidentally putting people around him in mortal danger at least _once_. You don’t have to know about magic for it to be working.”

“There’s a big fucking difference between _‘not dying’_ and _‘actively doing magic’_ ,” Lovino said. “And so far we’ve just got Nico and Cass and Eglantine.”

“Øystein,” Prussia said suddenly. “Øystein. He was a stage magician before working for Cass, and the only way that isn’t a _completely arbitrary_ hiring decision is if that wasn’t exactly stage magic.”

“Nico, Cassiel, and Øystein, then,” England said. “Let’s add some logic to this conundrum. All of them have at least one Nation in their immediate heritage. If we assume Øystein discovered actual magic when he was learning stage magic-”

“Nico told me he was jealous of his older siblings,” Lovino told them. “He found his magic trying to find something that made him different. Special.”

“Cass has _always_ thought he was- _exceptional,_ ” Prussia scowled. “That the rules didn’t apply to him.”

England gave him an incredibly haughty look down his nose.

“Oh, and I wonder where he got _that_ from?”

“I _earned_ my ego,” Prussia spat at him. “ _Centuries_ of fighting and conquering and getting stomped into the mud- learning my limits and fucking _surviving._ I _earned_ my pride.”

“So there’s something semi-deliberate to it, then,” England said decisively. “They have to be looking for something like it, or _want_ something like it, to discover it-”

Lovino’s phone ringing interrupted him; and he took himself off to the library to answer it.

“ _Chi parla?_ ”

 _‘Good morning, Mr. Vargas. This is_ Questura _Zunino.’_

“Ah, Vicente,” Lovino said. “What news do you have for me about the Bottegante investigation?”

_‘We were sorting through the items in Alfeo Bottegante’s house and we found a cache of laptops. One of them is of a woman killed four years ago in Pescara. It was suspected that this was an organized crime hit.”_

“Yes; so?”

_‘The rest of them are of foreigners, all from other places in Europe. There is one we identified as belonging to Anika Abt. I don’t know if you remember, sir-’_

“I do,” he interrupted. “A moment.”

Lovino stuck his head through the door back into Prussia’s office.

“Gilbert,” he said. “It’s the _Polizia di Stato_. They say that the Bottegante family had Anika Abt’s laptop.”

 _“What?”_ he asked, and England stood and excused himself, leaving the two Nations to their political affairs. “Why the hell did _they_ have it for?”

“Do I look like I fucking know?” Lovino demanded. “You want it or not?”

The expression he received clearly said _‘no **shit** ’._

Lovino got back on the phone.

“Have it ready for me, Vicente. I’m coming to retrieve it for the Provisional Government.”

* * *

It was mid-morning when they left Seppo Ilmarinen’s house. In the daylight, Lintukoto really _was_ alive with birds, the air and the grass. The sky was clear and the air was warm, at just the right temperature. The windmill turned above them, lazily in the breeze, grinding away at the wild wheat grain between the millstones. In the distance, the mountains of the foothills that made up Lintukoto rose, stony and devoid of snow.

Nia rode in front today, silent and tense, following Kem-Essuru where the hawk flew above them. She had secured the Jagdsprinz’s sword to the saddle in the place for it, and added a pair of saddlebags- a gift, as much as they now realized they had been given _‘gifts’_ , here- from Seppo Ilmarinen. The branch Cassiel had broken from the tree at Lake Avernus to gain them passage to Orcus was stowed in one. Zorya rode second, a few respectful yards behind her, and then Zell and Heinrich after that, in pensive quiet.

The sound of the wind in the grass and the birds accompanied them along until they came to the mountains. They cut into Lintukoto in the form of a rocky scree, ascending upwards to a cliff ledge, rising above them much like the cliffs of Orcus had above the beach of the Sea.

It was slow going, up the scree, as the horses switchbacked up the incline to keep the best footing on the rocks and gravel, dusting rising at intervals as stones, knocked loose, slid and tumbled down the slope.

“They are Arion’s children,” Zorya told Zell and Heinrich when she saw the way he was clutching at his horse’s reins. “They know better than to throw you, or not to step carefully.”

They reached the top of the cliff at- noon, perhaps. Lintukoto spread out below them, the Sea to their side, and they could see what ran into it, a deep, wide river with rich mud flats. A network of smaller streams ran into it on the far bank from Lintukoto, diving up the distant land. There were patches of farmland and channels diverted from the river and dammed and planted, salt pools and built up terraces and fields of bright flowers on the slopes of high hills, not mountains because just within view, behind them, were the _real_ mountains, these tall enough to have snow.

“Where’s that?” Zell asked Zorya, pointing.

Zorya shook her head.

“That is Chicomoztoc. We don’t go there.”

“But there’s clearly people! There’s farmland!”

“We don’t go there,” she repeated. “We require the Jagdsprinz for our treaties and our foreign relations, and have only held together so well for so long because the Kings you have met are all family, of a sort- and the Kings of Chicomoztoc are no relation of Amphitrite Kataiis.”

In contrast to the fertile land beyond the river, the cliff plateau was rock, by and large. There was a single tree, low and twisted, bark pale white and smooth like heartwood, leaves pale yellow-white and branches heavy with gold-yellow apples. There was a leaf-litter cover around the trunk, on the split and cracked stone below, broken by the tree’s roots, where the dead, ghostly-pale and transparent dry leaves were splattered with remains of some overripe apple specimens that had fallen from the tree and lay decomposing, attended by ants and other little bugs. There were blooms of tiny mountain flowers, vibrant blue and purple and pink and yellow and ivory-white, spilling from the cracks. Moss trailed down the root-broken stones and spread out behind the tree like a cape, eventually giving way to actual grass- short and yellow-green- and dirt- rocky and dry- in a high-walled mountain pass. The way was open for a short distance, then was covered by a multitude of overhanging trees, mostly pines and other evergreens, making the pass and forest dark.

Next to the tree was a natural well, an upwards jut of rock, sheared almost in half on a steep vertical diagonal, a split in the rock widened by hand and worn smooth by the passage of time to gain access to the water below.

Remembering what Amphitrite had told her, Nia nudged Arion towards the well and removed the golden ring she’d been given, dropping it down the well. Then, a turn to ride into a gap in the tree branches and a reach into the saddlebags to retrieve the branch they’d been carrying around. She found a bare space in a split in the trunk and jammed it in- the branch fused with the trunk immediately, seamless, just as though it had always been there.

Kem-Essuru dove out of the sky once she’d reemerged from the tree, and Nia raised her gloved hand to give him a place to land; just as there was a sharp, strange salutation from above, beginning with a whistle that turned quickly into a high, wordless cry.

Zorya turned her horse and raised her lance, flashing it in the sunlight; and the four of them watched as, from above on the mountain, a man rode his horse down a narrow path, the distant excited yip of dogs reaching their ears. It took some minutes for the man to appear, but when he did, Zell’s mind immediately went _‘British’_. He had the same sort of strange combination of angular and roundness to his features as the British people she’d met, and the dark brown hair and blue-green eyes and very light skin she associated with the Scots. The rest of him was a sort of strange picture, hair to his shoulders and pulled back with dyed-blue bone combs that matched the thin line of color around his eyes, light beard shaved in a sort of reverse goatee, carpeting stubble everywhere except around his mouth. Silver cuffs glinted on his ears and bronze of the visible tip of his compact horsebow, secured across his back. He had a saddle quiver, the fletching in the same deep cerulean as his combs; and a hand axe, handle wood, blade flint.

Heinrich eyed the flint blade and muttered: _“Elf”_ to Zell.

The man apparently heard, and smiled sharply at him, showing teeth; before turning to Nia.

“I am Ly Erg ap Gwynn, Jagdsprinz,” he said to her, bowing in the saddle. “And these-”

He swept a hand out to indicate the dogs he’d brought with him.

“-are your hunting hounds.”

Growing up with Germany, you _learned_ about dogs. These looked much like Scottish Deerhounds- they had the same tall, rangy dignity of one, and the slightly long, rough fur- but they were dirty-brown white everywhere but their ears, a dark red-brown you rarely got in that breed, but the grey-black eyes you did.

Nia reached down with her free hand so the nearest one could sniff her. It jumped up a little, catching one paw in the stirrup, and nosed at her hand. After a moment, it started to wag its tail, and licked her fingers enthusiastically.

Nia smiled widely and started scratching its ears, complimenting it lowly in German, which only made the tail wag harder. Kem-Essuru, unhappy with her moving around, launched himself off her hand to settle down huffily in the tree. The rest of the pack huddled around after the hawk had left, some whining, looking for attention.        

Ly Erg made a rising-falling whistle and the dogs retreated, most flopping to the ground under the tree, a few pacing about restlessly and sniffing.

“Shall we go, Jagdsprinz?” Zorya asked.

The smile fled Nia’s face and she scowled, just slightly.

“Not yet,” she said, and looked meaningfully at her siblings.

Zorya inclined her head in acknowledgement and retreated to the tree, where Ly Erg had already dismounted and tied his horse up. They sat down together on the roots and started a quiet conversation, surrounded by the dogs.

Zell kept watching them for a moment before looking back her younger sister.

“They’re your _keepers,_ Nia,” she said. “They’re _talking_ about being your subordinates, but they’re shepherding you to-”

“I know,” Nia interrupted her, reaching out to lay her hand on Zell’s. “I noticed. But I _agreed._ ”

“You didn’t _know_ what you were agreeing to!” Zell protested. “You shouldn’t-”

“That’ll just make it worse,” Nia said. “My _job_ is supposed to be enforcing contracts and obligations and oaths and agreements. With _magic,_ Zell.”

“You have to think about it like a fairy tale,” Heinrich said heavily. “Or a myth. That’s what we’re in. Abandoning your duty just gets you killed, after a lot of pain and suffering.”

“Listen to Heinz, huh?” Nia asked her sister. “He has to know those stories for theater. That’s the sort of stuff they make grand opera out of.”

“Knowing them makes me want you to go even less,” he said. “I know _exactly_ how badly it can go. And-”

His voice dropped.

“-I’ve _seen_ that demon, Nia. Not for very long, but I did. And we both saw what it did to Zheng. I don’t-”

“I’ll handle it,” Nia promised them. “So go home. This _can’t_ be your fight.”

“You _said_ you weren’t looking for a way to die,” Zell accused, on the edge of tears. “But _now_ you won’t walk away from fighting a demon.”

“I can’t,” she replied simply. “I _will_ try not to die. But even if I do-”

Nia looked both of them in the eye.

“-I’ll see you both again, afterwards. I’ll have died fighting a _demon-_ surely, that counts as martyrdom, somehow.”

Zell wiped at her eyes.

“I don’t think that’s how you’re supposed to go into it,” she muttered through her tears.

“What else am I supposed to do?” Nia asked, and tugged at her sister’s arm until Zell looked at her and she could pull the other woman over for a goodbye kiss to the cheek.

“I’ll be praying for you,” Zell whispered as Nia’s lips brushed her skin. Nia answered with a squeeze of her hand; then turned to her twin brother as Zell dismounted.

Heinrich forwent the kiss and instead leaned further and pulled his sister into a tight hug, burying his face in her shoulder and, trembling, took a shuddering breath as his own tears started to fall. They stayed like that for a long moment before Heinrich pulled away, dragging his hands down Nia’s arms to take hold of hers.

“Please,” he begged.

“I won’t leave you waiting any longer than I have to,” she said, and pulled her hands away so he would get down off the horse. Once he’d started to, she turned around to ask Zorya a question.

“How do I send-”

 Ly Erg waved a hand at the space between the tree and the well.

“Just walk,” he said. “You will go where you need to be.”

Heinrich and Zell paused, a moment, before going through- partially out of a touch of fear and uncertainty about the method of travel, partially out of concern and unwillingness to leave- and looked back at their sister, one last time.

She seemed so far away, up on Arion, the sky bright behind her.

* * *

It occurred to Armas, after he called his parents and they had agreed to come to Stuttgart for Christmas if Poland would agree to have them, that Teodozja had framed it as a sort of revival of the European Nations’ Christmas Party and, well-

It would be very rude not to invite the host Nation.

So he slid through the packed hallways of the government building- they were probably just going to buy this structure outright, instead of continuing to rent and having to work around the lease; it would be too difficult to try and move everything out of this building and into a new one with a different contract- to the elevators and then to Dietrich’s office.

Customarily, the Nation’s office was located adjacent to the Head of Government. Dietrich’s office was right next to Elke Bastian’s, and so far, no one had raised a fuss. He knocked on the closed door and waited for Dietrich to call: _“Yes?”_ before opening it.

Dietrich looked somewhat confused to see him.

“It’s not business,” Armas assured him before the Nation could question anything. “Well, it has a sort of _aspect_ of business. There’s technically diplomacy involved.”

“Shouldn’t Fadri be bringing this to me, then?” Dietrich asked.

Armas shook his head.

“Teodozja- Teodozja Łukasiewicz, Poland’s adopted daughter, you remember me telling you about her?- she and I are having a Christmas gathering together. Poland and my parents will be there, so I thought I should invite you, as well.”

Dietrich blinked at him.

“You’re inviting me to Christmas?” he asked, earnestly puzzled.

“If you’re already busy-”

“No,” Dietrich said. “No, I didn’t- what do you _do_ at Christmas?”

Now Armas was confused.

“You never-?”

Dietrich shrugged.

“At least a third of the time we weren’t in a country with a lot of Christians,” he said. “And Prussia never did anything-”

“General Beilschmidt is- very Catholic,” Armas interrupted without thinking. “But he-”

“I was going to say,” Dietrich interrupted him right back. “That he never did anything with _me._ He’d disappear, every Christmas, I _guess_ to go to church, and just leave me alone for a few hours. Otherwise it was just like every other day. All I know is what I’ve seen on TV, and stuff.”

“Well,” Armas replied after a few moments. “My family is Protestant and I know Teodozja and Poland are Catholic, so I don’t know if we’re going to do anything about church; but there’ll be presents and food and that sort of thing.”

 _“Presents?”_   Dietrich asked, sounding a little panicked.

“You’re not exactly friends with anyone else who’ll be going,” Armas said quickly. “You don’t need to buy anything. Just bring some food or wine to contribute to the group. That’s all you need to do.”

 Dietrich took a deep breath.

“And this isn’t at _all_ you trying to _‘further my cordial relationships with Europe’_?” he asked, sounding more like himself.

“Not primarily,” Armas allowed. “Mostly, it’s just good manners. And now that I know you’ve never had a _real_ Christmas…”

He let himself trail off and gave the Nation he worked for a significant look, one that said: _‘You’re not getting out of it.’_

“Okay,” Dietrich said. “I’ll come.”

“I’ll tell you the details when I have them,” Armas promised.

He was most of the way out the door when Dietrich called:

“Mr. Väinä- Armas. Thanks.”

* * *

It didn’t take Lovino long to get the laptop- show up at the _Polizia di Stato_ headquarters in Naples, bully _Questura_ Vincente Zunino into letting him take the device, and then step back to Prussia’s office.

“-Abt’s laptop. Can-” Prussia was saying as Lovino returned. For a moment, Lovino thought he was talking to himself, but then Prussia raised a hand to press two fingertips to his ear and he realized the other Nation was actually using the earpiece he’d taken to wearing around everywhere.

“-yeah, okay, just a minute,” Prussia said to whoever was on the other end of the conversation, and turned his full attention to Lovino, holding a hand out for the laptop.

Lovino kept a firm hold on it.

“It’s evidence from one of my ongoing investigations,” he reminded Prussia. “I can’t just give it you.”

“It’s evidence in one of _mine,_ too,” Prussia snapped; and a for a moment, they glared at each other in the time-honored spirit of jurisdictional conflicts everywhere.

“I can give it you if I stay with it,” Lovino allowed. “So it never technically leaves Italian custody.”

“I can’t take it to the analysts if you’re here,” Prussia said. “State secrets, you know.”

“So call one up here,” Lovino countered. “So I don’t see anything I’m not supposed to.”

There was a moment’s pause before Prussia smiled, the way he did when he knew he’d won something.

He adjusted the earpiece and gestured for the laptop. Lovino handed it over this time.

“Hey Don!” Prussia said cheerfully as he turned the laptop on and opened the Internet browser, angling it so Lovino could see, as well. There was a page pulled up he hadn’t seen before, the start page of some forum. “Could you work on this from up here?”

Lovino didn’t hear the answer, but suddenly things on the page started _happening,_ the laptop seeming to log itself into an account and then opening threads in new tab after new tab and switching between them too fast to follow.

“Who the fuck is _‘Don’_?” Lovino demanded.

“Wouldn’t _you_ like to know?” Prussia said, still smiling, and then started talking to the person on the other end of the earpiece- this _‘Don’_ , Lovino assumed. “So, _now_ that we’ve got a perfectly legitimate reason to be on the closed section, what-”

His expression went from self-satisfied to furious, sharply, and Lovino jumped a little at the change.

The distracting activity on the laptop stopped as the screen started to show one page consistently, though other tabs kept opening and closing.

The title of the thread was: _‘Denazification v. 2’_. Lovino got through about half a sentence before he came to the phrase _‘Nation of Germany’_. There was a sick twisting in his stomach, and he scrolled the page down enough so that he could see the attachment to the post.

“I remember when we took that picture,” he said hollowly, letting his eyes go slightly unfocused so he wouldn’t have to clearly see himself and his brother in facist uniforms. “Where-”

“Call Miervaldis.”

“I don’t take _orders_ from-”

“I’m not asking you as Prussia,” Gilbert said. “Or the general. We’re… family, kind of, Lovino. Miervaldis has the other end of this investigation, and now you’re in it. Call him. Please.”    

* * *

Heinrich felt that the journey should have been more dramatic than Gilberto and Mosè’s room just appearing around him in the moment he blinked. It was still incredibly disorienting, suddenly being in his house where before he had been looking at the side of a mountain, but-

It was home.

It was something to be grateful for; when Nia-

“ _Papá_?”

Mosè was in bed- it was too bright outside for him to be in bed. He didn’t know what day it was, but either he was supposed to be at daycare or he should have been up, doing something with his weekend.

He bent down to crouch next to Mosè’s bed.

“No daycare, _gattino_?”

“Sick,” his son mumbled.

“Yeah,” Heinrich agreed quietly, fingering some of Mosè’s hair out of his face. “You’re sick. Who’s here with you?”

“ _Mamma_ ,” Mosè said. “She mad t’you, _Papá_.”

“I’m not surprised,” he said. “I left. I didn’t know I was going to be leaving. I’m sorry I disappeared.”

“Miss m’birthday,” his son pouted. “‘m _two._ ”

 “Good job,” Heinrich told him. “So what’s today?”

Mosè thought about it for a moment.

“Day you come home?”

Heinrich chuckled.

“Well, yes- but I meant the date, _gattino_.”

Mosè thought about it again.

“Almost Christmas,” he said decisively.

Almost Christmas- he’d been gone just over four months. He leaned down to kiss Mosè on the forehead, then made to stand.

Mosè whined, wordlessly, and reached for him.

“ _Neiiiiiin_ , _Papá_ \- _singen! Auf Deutsch-_ ”

“ _Ja_ , _ja_ , _okay_. _Was magst du_?”

“I ‘member,” Mosè told his father. “You not around but I ‘member.”

“You did a good job,” Heinrich reassured him. “What song, _gattino_?”

“ _Der Mond_.”

Heinrich hummed a few bars, to get himself ready, before beginning to sing.

“ _Der Mond ist aufgegangen, die Golden Sternlein prangen am Himmel hell und klar…_ ”

He was almost to the end of third verse, which was about as far as he had intended on going in the first place, when Adriana froze in the doorway. Heinrich noticed her, out of the corner of his eye, and made a little gesture asking her to wait until he had finished. She didn’t stay in the doorway, but entered the room to stand next to him.

“Do you need anything, Mosè?” she asked once her husband had finished singing. The boy shook his head. “Then I need your _Papá_ for a while.”

By unspoken consensus, they didn’t start talking until they were well out of Mosè’s room, down the hall and in the sitting room.

“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything beforehand,” Heinrich said. “Zell contacted me the afternoon before to say she needed to see me in Naples and she wouldn’t elaborate and I was worried about her so I went and then she-”

“Cassiel _magicked_ you,” Adriana said, taking his hands. Heinrich relaxed, just slightly. If she was planning on- on kicking him out, or something equally repudiating, he didn’t think she’d have done that.

“How much did they tell you?”

“Just what they knew,” she said, and a hint of anger crept into her tone. “It wasn’t enough.”

Heinrich hung his head.

“Zell was going to go by herself,” he told her. “But then Nia tried to convince her not to, and couldn’t, so said _she_ was going as well, and I couldn’t… let them go alone.”

“Nia,” Adriana began. “ _Nia_ makes sense, as much as any of this done. Going to- to confront pagan _gods_ and _fairies-_ she knows about things like. Like swordfighting. The things you read about in fantasy novels. But _you-_ ”

He couldn’t help smiling, a little bit.

“I don’t think any of them were actually gods, _belleza_ ,” he said. “But you know, that’s what Nia was saying. Said more than once. That’s why she sent us home.”

Adriana picked up on that immediately.

“ _Sent_ you? _She’s_ not-”

“No,” Heinrich said. “Adriana, she’s-”

It was too hard to say, now. Adriana _knew_ about the demon, he’d told her when he turned up at synagogue after moving in with his father, to take care of him in the first depths of his grief; but having to explain the _rest_ of it, Amphitrite and the Jagdsprinz and Ereshkigal and Irkalla and seeing Rome-

That was too much.

“Heinz?” Adriana asked, quietly, gently. “Is she dead?”

“Not yet,” he said; and he could feel the tears starting to come back, and Adriana must have noticed because she pulled him into a hug and he held her, tightly.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked.

“A little bit,” Adriana told him. “But I’m happy you’re back, too; and upset that I’ve been having to lie about where you were to everyone but Uncle Beniamino; and still worried about you because I don’t know what _happened_ to you, yet.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

Adriana sighed a little, and pulled back.

“Just until Bertino and Luisa get back,” she said, looking him straight in the eye. “Then I want you _here._ ”

“Okay,” Heinrich agreed. “We’ll talk after dinner?”

Adriana nodded.

“Go call your father, or something. I’m surprised he hasn’t shown up yet, the way he’s been worrying about all of you.”

* * *

Miervaldis was in his office when Lovino called, and after hearing _‘Prussia told me to call, it’s about Anika Abt’_ ,told him to hang up, call Verena, and tell her to patch him through to Zell’s office. He dashed down the hallway to reach the room before the call did, and shut the door behind him for privacy.

He had a moment to pull himself together before the office phone rang, and he picked it up, placing the receiver on the desk and hitting the speakerphone button.

“So, Anika Abt?” he asked, sticky notes and pen ready.

 _‘The Polizia di Stato found her laptop in Bottegante’s house,’_ Romano began; and Miervaldis wrote _‘Laptop: Camorra’_ on the first note and stuck it under _‘Anika Abt’_. _‘I brought it over to Prussia and now he’s-’_

 ** _‘I TOLD you!’_** Miervaldis heard Prussia yell. _‘I **TOLD** you it was fucking **Hanna SCHUMACHER-!** ’_

“You’re _certain?_ ” he asked.

 _‘I’ve got no damn clue what he’s yelling about,’_ Romano told him. _‘But there’s a thread here that has this old picture of us, of the Axis Nations, and the title is_ ‘Denazification v. 2’ _.’_

That title went on another note, and was placed next to the forum URL.

 _‘And then past that,’_ Romano continued. _‘There’s people talking shit about Ludwig- okay, this guy is losing his shit over Cuba and talking about how they can’t let Germany- oh; oh **fuck YOU!**_ _You **ignorant, WORTHLESS-!** ’_

There was movement at the edge of Miervaldis’ vision and he turned and-

“Holy- _Zell!_ ”

“ _What_ are you doing to my office?” she exclaimed. “Where are the papers I had-”

_‘That is an **actual** fucking **Nazi,** you pieces of shit! Were you paying **any-** ’_

_‘I **TOLD** you, Miervaldis! **These** are the people who blew up the Reichstag!’_

“What’s this about the Reichstag!” Zell demanded.

Miervaldis found himself suddenly without words, his mouth just open as he tried to formulate a thought.

Prussia was still yelling.

‘ _They **killed LUDWIG!** ’_

Zell, apparently _done_ with not getting any explanations, snatched the phone receiver and shouted _“I **know** who killed Vati and **whoever** you’re talking about, it wasn’t them!”_ down it.

There was silence on the other end of the line.

 _‘Zell?’_ Lovino breathed.

She deflated, shrinking into herself as Miervaldis watched, drawing her free arm around her torso and hunching her shoulders up.

“What’s going _on?_ ” she begged. “ _Zio-_ ”

They were both there, suddenly, crowding the office a little as they tried not to run into each other. Prussia took the phone from her and hung it up before pulling her into a hug.

“How did you get back?”

 _“Nia-”_ Zell told him, before she buried her face in his chest and started crying.

“Hey, hey, _cara,_ ” Lovino said, rubbing her back gently. “Hey. You’re home. We’re here.”

Miervaldis was left standing there, feeling very awkward, as a miniature family reunion happened in front of him. He was considering leaving when Zell started speaking again.

She sniffed as she pulled away to look up at Prussia.

“Nia,” she said again. “They- it was Mephistopheles. It was the _House_ demon.”

Romano tensed up.

_“What.”_

“All the times,” Zell continued, voice rough. “ _All_ the times, _Onkel_ , with, with Holy Rome and the Confederations and _Vati-_ it was the _House_ demon. Amphitrite told us. And, and, the Jagdsprinz-”

“Is dead,” Prussia said, looking like someone had punched him in the stomach. “Yeah, we know.”

“It was the demon _then,_ too. And now they’re making _Nia_ Jadgsprinz, and she has to- the _demon-_ ”

Romano shot Prussia a hard, dark look that Miervaldis didn’t understand, maybe because it was something about Nation business, maybe because all he could think was-

“The _demon’s_ not gone?”

Romano looked over at him while Prussia maneuvered Zell into sitting in her desk chair.

“Apparently not,” he said, anger edging his voice. “Where’s- water, or something-”

“I’ll get it,” Miervaldis said automatically, and left for the Department waiting area, shoving down the sudden fear as best he could.

“Verena,” he said once he reached the waiting area, snatching up a cup and filling it from the water cooler. “Everything for me goes on hold until I say otherwise. The Director’s back, and she needs a bit.”

“Is she alright?” Verena asked worriedly.

“I think she will be,” he said. “Nothing until I come back.”

“Yes, of course.”

He detoured on the way back to the office, ducking around the corner by Zell’s office to grab one of the blankets they kept with the secret cot in the supply closet.

Back in the office, Prussia took the blanket from him and draped it over Zell’s shoulders as Miervaldis handed her the cup of water.

“So,” she asked, after she’d had some of the water. “What’s happening here?”

“You don’t have to go back to work _right_ away,” Romano told her.

Zell shot him an obstinate look, and waited silently for an answer.

Prussia sighed, and sat down on her desk.

“Zell,” he began. “While you and your siblings were off finding out the- magical side of things, we’ve come across more information about the actual Fire.”

“It’s awkward,” Miervaldis put in. “In the sensitive information way.”

Prussia bit the inside of his cheek.

“Some of it will probably be damaging to the Provisional Government,” he said grudgingly.

Romano’s eyebrows shot up; and Zell took a deep breath.

“All right,” she said. “So _explain._ ”

They did.

* * *

The wind across the stone cliff started to pick up once Zell and Heinrich left, the clear sky showing a gathering of dark clouds, off towards the sea. Zorya remounted her horse and joined Nia by the cliff edge, watching the distant beginnings of a storm, while Ly Erg got up from the ground and spoke to Kem-Essuru, still perched in the tree.

Nia turned in her seat to watch as the hawk flew off, darting down the mountain pass they would soon be taking, gliding over the trees.

“He’s going to tell the Tylwyth Teg who will rally to you to begin to gather,” Zorya told her, then pointed to the clouds. “Just as the people of Buyan and Kitezh do, under the direction of my sister and her husband. They wait only for your call.”

“Let’s not make them wait any longer than they have to, then.”

Another whistle from Ly Erg had the hounds up and in a semblance of order- they milled about in their group, many of them quivering with excitement and anticipation, darting about to sniff here and there.

Nia took the lead. The way was clearly marked.

The forest had looked dark, from the outside, and the first few minutes under the dense pines were. The lighting was dim and the air heavy with the smell of pine, fallen needles getting crushed with every fall of their horses’ hooves, the hooves making dull _thwump_ s where they met the thick grass and dark, rich soil underneath.

But soon they came to a rocky creek; wide and shallow, here, at the fording. They crossed it easily, the flowing water not quite breaking the horses’ fetlocks at its deepest point. Light dappled them as they went from the breaks in the tree cover where the pines started to give way to other trees, oak and yew and ash and maple. A massive willow stood anchored almost directly across from the mountain pass, and the path curved around it, leading them through the new mix of trees on a well-worn path.

“This is the Huntsroad,” Ly Erg said. “It leads directly from the Jagdshall to the World Gate, through the Jägerskov.”

The Huntsroad was never oppressive, after the mountain pass, but there were rough portions- a rugged area where the grass thinned and the trees dwindled and the mountain rock thrust up through the soil, jagged and sharp, as fog closed around them.

Lights bloomed within the gray-white, glowing gold and green and blue.

“Follow the foxfire,” Zorya said. “It knows we belong here- it won’t lead us astray.”

The lights danced and hovered about as they continued on through the fog, trees looming darkly, suddenly before them; and eventually the mass of eroded soil walls, hip-high when seated on a horse, lining the path.

There were faces, sometimes- mirrored eyes in the forest or the pale, fleeting wisp-edge of profile in the fog illuminated by the foxfire.

“Huldrene,” Ly Erg told her when he caught her looking. “And fog spirits. The foxfires are their lamps.”

The fog spirits led them on until everything cleared away, abruptly, to a scene Nia halted Arion for because she _had_ to stop and stare at the view, which proved so well that they were still dizzyingly high above sea level; if not exactly in the mountains any longer than on a definite plateau.

A deep ravine cut through the earth in front of them, the trees on this side petering out some yards away from the edge; but starting up again directly against the lip of the ravine on the opposite side. The Huntsroad widened here, spilling out over the strip of meadow and across the massive, natural stone bridge erosion had carved the ravine out around. Off to her left, what was presumably the creek from before had turned into a fast-flowing river that hurled over the edge of the ravine and tumbled down the rocks in a magnificent, thundering, foaming cascade, the wall beneath scoured bare to the rock for feet and feet on both sides of the waterfall, the trees and vines that clung to it elsewhere bright and vibrant and against the water and mist it generated.

The hounds spread out around them, frantically dashing about, sniffing the grass and the air. A few of them yelped and whined, trotting towards the bridge and pacing uncertainly when no one followed them before coming back to the group, tails held low and wagging furiously.

“That way, the river runs to the Sea,” Zorya told Nia. “There’s a pool at the bottom of the ravine, and from there the current will take you directly to Póli Thálassas. On the shores, in happier times, there would be a seasonal market, the common point of trade for the people of all the Kings, held under the eye of the Hunt and the Jagdsprinz. There was a festival at every turning of the season and dances every turning of the moon.”

“The ruins of the fairground town can still be seen at the bottom,” Ly Erg said. “And the wilds of the ravine haven’t quite yet completely overrun the road from the Silent Hills and my mother’s court to the town. The ravine slopes downwards from the Hills to the Sea, cutting straight through the Jägerskov. There are paths down, from here, that the Oreads will show you later.”

“How much longer, until we… get there?”

He tilted his head at the other side of the ravine.

“Just a few minutes once we are across.”

The ruins of the fairground town and what was left uncovered of the road to the Hills were visible from the bridge, far below, but Nia spent only a moment riding along the edge to see it before returning to the center, not liking the feeling of vertigo looking down gave her. The hounds were tense now, moving together in a true pack, winding around the horses as they entered the forest again on the other side. It was dim here as well, but a quiet, peaceful dim, like dusk and gray twilight, threads of sunlight weaving through the branches above.

The Huntsroad terminated between two large stones, shaped by the flow of water from the waterfall in the ravine but uncarved. The outer layer was worn away on top to reveal a core of very pale sea-foam green quartz, darker near where it met the stone, that shone gently with an inner light, the brightest inner glow white-gold.

The large clearing in front of them was ringed by a symbolic fence of stone slabs, of the same rock as the lamp-stones by the Huntsroad, laid flat and imbedded in the ground, then carved and painted, most of the coloring chipped away now from weathering and lack of maintenance. The trees behind them grew tall and curving slightly inwards, the branches meeting far overhead to form an interlacing, tent-like roof. The grass was short, like it was regularly cropped by forest animals, though there were none in evidence- no birds, not even some small animal, a squirrel or a mouse.

There were no spirits here, either. The Jägerskov wasn’t dead in this place, not in any sense- but it was deserted, by everything that couldn’t leave.

Off-center in the clearing was the half-ruin of a structure, part wood, part stone. It looked like it had begun as a longhouse, perhaps, or a roundhouse- both were in evidence, and it was difficult to tell which may have come first.

“The Jagdshall,” Zorya said, voice hushed. “The demon lives within.”

It was slow-going at first, approaching the crumbling Hall. Nia nudged Arion into moving forwards and he inched into the clearing, ears held back. There was no sound but her own breathing, and no movement but their own- no indication that the demon had noticed their presence.

Nia did not trust that it hadn’t. She leaned forwards slightly and placed a hand on Arion’s neck where it joined his chest.

“Come on,” she told him quietly. “We’re here to challenge, aren’t we.”

Arion snorted softly and tossed his head, then pricked up his ears and straightened his neck, every line of him exuding stern confidence. He started walking instead of inching.

Nia was peripherally aware of Zorya and Ly Erg starting to follow them, bringing the hounds, but her attention was focused on where Arion was leading her, straight up to the now-freestanding doorframe of the Jagdshall, the wooden doors themselves in rotted, shattered pieces nearby, strewn about in the grass.

They passed under the lintel- and still, nothing happened.         

* * *

After the explanation, Zell’s office was very quiet.

“I-” Zell tried to say, but stopped. “Nico’s really all right?”

“He’s still scared,” Lovino admitted. “Him and Diana both. They’ve been all right in my house, and I think they’re planning on staying until the baby’s born in February, but after that- we’ll figure something.”

Zell nodded, seeming a little distracted.

“How’s the- what are you calling it, _Onkel_? Unification? Consolidation?”

“It doesn’t have an official name yet,” Prussia said. “People need to _agree_ on it more before we can get to that stage.”

“Okay,” Zell said. “Okay.”

The office fell quiet again. Miervaldis could hear Verena being curtly polite with someone on the phone.

“I want to see Rémy,” she said abruptly. “It’s been four months and I want to see my husband.”

She looked to Miervaldis.

“You can handle things yourself, for the rest of the day?”

He nodded.

“I’ll write up a summary of what we’ve been doing since you’ve been gone,” he promised. “You’ll have it tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll take you, Zell,” Lovino said, holding out his hand for her to take. “C’mon.”

They left Prussia and Miervaldis alone in the room.

“…Did you want something?”

“That,” Prussia said, pointing to the planning board Miervaldis had been using. “I’ll bring it back. But I need that for right now.”

Miervaldis sighed internally. There really wasn’t any way to deny him it; and he _did_ probably need it.

“Take it,” he said, and helped Prussia lift it up off the wall.

Then, he too was gone.

* * *

His boss was speaking but that was- completely unimportant, wouldn’t ever be important, not now, not when there was the sudden soft presence of Zell and Heinrich right back where they belonged and he had to-

“Sit _down,_ Veneziano!”

His legs buckled under him and he sat back down, even as he desperately tried to convince himself he _hadn’t_ heard anything, that he hadn’t been given any order-

They seemed fine, at least, from what he could tell, they weren’t panicking and they weren’t in pain and there was nothing _off_ about them, nothing to say that there was magic involved.

Nia wasn’t- but he hadn’t been expecting her.

It felt like the meeting _dragged_ though it couldn’t have taken very much longer at all, or maybe it did, Feliciano just couldn’t _tell._ As soon as it was over he shot out of his seat and- Heinrich was closest-

He appeared suddenly in the Doge’s Palace, near his own rooms, and severely startled some tourists. He got an alarmed look from the tour guide, but he shook her head at her, trying to tell her not to worry, and walked as quickly as he could without breaking into a run until he found his son, standing at the end of the short hallway that led to his apartments.

Feliciano didn’t stop, just grabbed his son’s wrist and pulled him along down the hallway, fumbling with his keys to open the door and hurrying them inside so they could have privacy, so they could talk-

As soon as he shut the door, he grabbed Heinrich in the tightest hug he dared, remembering as his breath started to come shaky with emotion and looming tears when his son had been small enough to tuck under his chin, which hadn’t been for _years_. Heinrich had ended up with Ludwig’s shoulders and much of his height, and had stood taller than Feliciano since he was seventeen, when he came into his late growth spurt. 

“Hey, _Babbo,_ ” Heinrich greeted him quietly as he returned the hug.

“Where’s your sister?” Feliciano asked. “Zell’s in Brussels, where’s-”

“Nia’s-”

He could feel his son’s discomfort take hold, the way he shifted and tensed.

“I- _Babbo,_ they’re making her-”

“Jagdsprinz, I know,” he said. “But _where_ is she?”

“She sent us home. She’s with Zorya Kascheiyivna and Ly Erg ap Gwynn. They were headed into the Jägerskov when we left.”

Feliciano inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself.

“She was all right, when she-?”

“She didn’t seem upset about it,” Heinrich said. “Maybe a little worried, but mostly- calm. At- at peace with it all.”

“And _you’re-_ ”

“I’m fine.”

He pulled back enough to look up at Heinrich’s face, searching it to make _sure._

“Adriana,” he said. “You need to-”

“I have. That’s where I was first. She- I’m giving her space to sort her feelings out. Until the children come home.”

Heinrich paused.

“How did you know Nia was going to be Jagdsprinz.”

“I-”

Feliciano didn’t want to talk about this. He _really_ didn’t want to talk about this.

“After you left Lovino went to see Kore Despoina to try and get you back but you were gone already and he learned that you were going to see Amphitrite Kataiis so then I- I went. To see Amphitrite.”

“Oh,” Heinrich said. “Amphitrite.”

The silence between them stretched long, and Feliciano couldn’t bear to keep eye contact. He looked away, to the wall, to the join with the floor, unable to focus on anything but the heavy, judging weight of his husband’s Iron Cross, on its chain around his neck, under his shirt. Ludwig’s wedding ring was strung there, as well.

Those had been the only two things he’d found in the room in UN, after Prussia had left with Dietrich, four years ago. They were the only two things, the only two _physical_ things, he had of Ludwig’s. There were pictures they’d taken, drawings and paintings he’d done- but there wasn’t anything with the history of these two objects, and now-

They were heavy.

“I don’t know what you want me to say about her,” he admitted.

Heinrich looked down at him; then pulled back completely. Feliciano was left with empty hands as his son turned away from him and took some steps, then hovered, uncertainly, halfway between him and the window out over the water below.

“I don’t know, either,” he finally said. “I’m not the one you should be apologizing to, but _Vati-_ it was wrong.”

“I know.”

“I thought you were better than that.”

That hurt to hear; but he’d been expecting it, at least.

“I know.”

Heinrich seemed to make up his mind, and went to stand in front of the window. After a moment, he put his hands on the sill and rested his weight there, the line of his shoulders rising and bending.

“And there are- things,” he said, slowly; and Feliciano hated the dull resignation there. “That we learned. That I don’t know how to tell you.”

“Then let’s leave it for now,” Feliciano said to his son. “Please. You’re home. Let’s just… please.”

* * *

There was no warning. One moment, Rémy was alone in his office; the next, his wife and uncle-in-law were standing there.

It took a moment for him to get over the breathless jolt of surprise- a moment where Romano retreated from the room, closing the office door and, he could see through the glass inset, leaning up against it on the other side, giving them time and space; and a moment where Zell just stood there, looking a little shaken and a lot sharply relieved, sharply longing.

Rémy was on his feet the moment after, taking her by the shoulders and looking her over quickly.

“You’re all right?” he asked anxiously. “You’re not hurt?”

“I- I’m okay,” she said; and then they hugging, without really thinking about it. “You were worried-?”

“Of _course_ I was worried!” Rémy told her, a little more sharply than he’d intended to. “The Nations were acting like we should start thinking about funerals and they wouldn’t _tell_ me anything besides there was magic involved, I was reduced to reading mythology and Grimm’s Fairy Tales to figure out some of what you _might_ have been going through!”

“That was a terrible decision,” his wife informed him.

“Was it _wrong?_ ”

“Not entirely,” she allowed.

Rémy wasn’t certain if he wanted to ask for clarification about that or not. He didn’t really want to get an answer he didn’t want to hear.

He kissed Zell gently on the lips.

“Don’t do it again?” he asked quietly.

“I didn’t want to leave you,” Zell said. “But I _had_ to know.”

“I read the note you left,” Rémy told her, letting go of her to go back to his desk and take the paper in question out of his work bag. He smoothed it out against the table, the paper going flat immediately, the fibers used to bending the way he pushed them. There had been days where he couldn’t go fifteen minutes without taking the note back out again to read.

For a while, Rémy had thought that his wife’s assertion that she loved him, but that she was going to go wherever she had to for answers about her father, no matter where it took her, were going to be the last he ever heard from her.

That still stung.

“I would never have expected it; but once I found out, I wasn’t… surprised.”

Zell was hovering uncertainly in the center of the clear space in his office, not really wanting to sit in the chair he kept for guests, but having no other option. She took it.

“I know how much you care about your parents,” he continued.

Zell smiled. It was a slight, uncertain thing.

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“I’ve always been jealous about how close the three of you were to them,” Rémy said, avoiding the simple answer. “I just never thought that would conflict with how close _we_ were.”

“I didn’t want it-”

“It doesn’t _matter_ what you _wanted_ it to be like, Zell!” Rémy interrupted her. He was sickly certain, then, that they were going to have an argument. He’d been telling himself that if ( _when_ ) she came back, they weren’t going to _do_ this- it was going to be a touching reunion, a romantic reunion, a reunion that would convince her not to go anywhere anytime soon-

“What you _did_ was leave; leave me and leave Louis! You _know_ how I feel about people _abandoning_ me- I was running away to your house for, for some decent _parenting_ nearly every week since I was _eleven-_ ”

“I didn’t forget,” Zell said. “The first time you showed up it was three weeks after New Year’s and you’d skipped school that Friday to come to our house, because we’d seen each other over Christmas and you were upset about France, so I said if you were that unhappy you could come over some time. I thought you’d ask France to ask my parents if you could visit for the weekend or something, but you stole some of his money and bought your own train pass and went the entire way from Paris to Berlin by yourself. _Vati_ never had the heart to keep you from coming back.”

“Your parents practically _raised_ me,” Rémy continued. “It was Germany who asked about how I was doing in classes and talked to me about relationships and Veneziano who helped me get a summer job so I could pay for my own tickets and looked at universities with me. They- _Germany was important to me **too,**_ Zell, but you didn’t even _mention_ what you were going to do to me!”

“You would have tried to convince me not to go,” Zell said. “So I didn’t say anything.”

“I _would_ have tried to convince you not to go,” Rémy agreed. “But you should have _told_ me _before_ you ran off and left us alone, before I had to suddenly take care of Louis by myself-”

“I budgeted for it,” Zell said, looking worried. “And I re-vetted the nanny service and found good kindergartens so he could start to go to school, a little bit.”

Rémy took a deep breath and put a hand over his eyes for a moment.

“Rémy?”

“Zell,” he said. “I love you; but sometimes you remind me of my father.”

“I know that’s not the point,” she insisted. “I know why you’re upset. But it’s what I could do to make it better without not actually doing it at all.”

“I’d rather you hadn’t done it.”

“I had to do it,” Zell said. “Even with- Even with how it turned out.”

“And how did it turn out?”

His wife’s voice when uncharacteristically bitter.

“We’re never getting _Vati_ back,” she told him. “I know where dead Nations go, and it’s nothing Christian. _Babbo_ has a _wife,_ who he _cheated_ on with _Vati._ Nia- the House demon isn’t dead, _it_ took _Vati,_ and they’re making Nia go fight it, and she wasn’t even _upset_ about it!”

She sniffed in a way he knew meant she was holding back tears.

“She _said_ before we left that she was going to get _Vati_ back, whatever she had to do; and then insisted that she _wasn’t_ looking for a way to kill herself. But she didn’t _act_ like it!”

“I-” Rémy tried to say. “Zell-”

“She’d probably find this amusing. Nia,” Zell continued, wiping at her eyes. “I _know_ she was mad about _Babbo_ and his wife, even though she didn’t really say anything, and here _we_ are, fighting about abandoning spouses. I bet Heinrich is getting the same talk from Adriana right now. _And_ that’s even what Nia told us to try and keep us from going- that we had spouses and children to look after.”

“I wish you’d listened to her,” Rémy said, coming around his desk to hug his wife again. “I really wish you had.”

* * *

Everyone stood when Gilbert walked into the Bunker with Miervaldis’ planning board and Anika Abt’s laptop, courtesy of his quick call-ahead to Ladonia, who had done the initial briefing.

He walked to the front of the room, where Ladonia’s processors were, and leaned the board against the front of a card table that had been set up for him, placing the computer atop it.

“If you haven’t been told to keep doing the work you were,” he announced to the room. “You’re now working on _this._ ”

He began to pace.

“ _Everything_ from this forum needs to be read, checked, and catalogued. I want to know _exactly_ who’s been posting to the locked section- that’s usernames, IP addresses, legal names, residences, and citizenships. We’re looking specifically for anything related to the Fire, and anything that would tell us why Italian organized crime based out of Naples would have Anika Abt’s laptop, but anything else that looks big or important, you _report._ ”

The aide who’d been sent to fetch it wheeled in a freestanding dry erase board from of the operations room two floors above them. Prussia took the marker from her and wrote across the top of the board and wrote the information he’d demanded from the analysts across the top; then filled in each column for Hanna Schumacher, Anika Abt, and Xaver Kraus.

Anika Abt and Xaver Kraus got little _‘x’_ s next to their rows.

“You have your assignments,” Gilbert said, sitting down at the table. “Get to work.”

It took a little time for the first new name to come in, but once it did, more followed quickly. Each one was written on the board, and eventually Gilbert called for the other dry erase board from the operations room, and when that one was half-filled, sent someone out to purchase a new one.

Each analyst was sent back to their station with a new name to research; and once every name that Ladonia had pulled as having posted on the secret forum was assigned, analysts started to get people to profile, to look through the index Ladonia had provided of every post a particular user had made and take notes about what they generally posted about, so they could use it as evidence and guidance later.

The first disaster of the day came around one or two o’clock in the afternoon, when an analyst sidled up to him and handed him something she’d printed out.

“It’s from Rhee Eun, sir, I don’t know if you know the name, but he was one of the student leaders in the Korean Unification Movement a couple years back. Here he says he’s speaking for the whole Movement.”

Gilbert raised an eyebrow at her.

“And _why-_ ”

She looked very nervous.

“You should read it, sir.”

He took it, and started to, and had to try very, very hard not to stand up and punch something, like the wall.

Hanna Schumacher had been _selling_ their personal information; handing it around to God _knew_ who in exchange for what she wanted.

It had been one thing when he’d thought the _stalkers_ on the forum were only collecting anything they could get their hands on about the Nations themselves.

It was something else altogether to learn that they’d been tracking down information about their _children_ as well; tracking it down and _handing it out-_

“You had Rhee Eun to research?” he asked the analyst tightly.

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re in charge of this now,” Gilbert told her. “I’ll assign some more people to you in a minute. Find out _exactly_ what they have on our- on Nation’s families.”

“Yes, sir.”

He sent the next five analysts off to work with her, and asked Ladonia to devote a bit of processing power to it, as well.

The second disaster of the day was shortly after that, when one of the last analysts working on tracking a user down delivered Grażyna Król’s information to him. He wrote it near the bottom of the final dry erase board, pressing down harder with the marker than he usually did to keep his hand from shaking; and then left the Bunker, exiting the Berlin House entirely to duck through the trees screening the grounds from anyone trying to look in and stood in the afternoon light on the banks of the Spree, looking over the water to a section of the city that hadn’t burned in the Fire.

He couldn’t tell Poland, he decided after some minutes. Not yet. If he told Feliks prematurely, he’d just go rushing after his daughter, wanting an explanation, and the whole thing would be blown.

No, it had to be a secret until the last second. After they’d gotten the few secret forum members that were still alive in Germany, and Hanna Schumacher- _then_ Poland could know about Grażyna.

He went back to the Bunker; where it was some hours later, after dinner, maybe around eight, that the third and fourth disasters struck simultaneously.

The analyst who’d been delegated to work on finding out what the forum knew about their children returned with a file that contained the home addresses of every child of a European Nation, plus phone numbers and social media profiles for some and a myriad of miscellaneous details gleaned from newspapers and the Internet.

Most damning, the first three papers in the file were scans of his brother’s children’s birth certificates.

 _‘I hacked into Xaver Kraus’s old e-mail account to get those,’_ Ladonia said in his ear.

As Gilbert was staring blankly at the file he held open in his clenched fingers, a different analyst quietly deposited a handwritten page of information at his elbow and retreated. He forced himself to tear his eyes from the birth certificates to look at the new information.

It was crossreferencing some of the forum posters’ information to what had been gathered on the Neo-Nazi groups involved with the attacks during Fire, tracing the few connections to their full extent.

Prussia carefully put down the file he was holding, placed the crossreferencing sheet above it on the table, squaring the corners to each other _exactly,_ and asked for someone to bring him his own laptop.

When it arrived, he began to compile a presentation.

* * *

The inside of the Jagdshall was rather sparse and bare, and Nia didn’t know how much of that was from disuse and age and how much of that was a natural starkness of the building. The freestanding doorframe had clearly been a part of the longhouse portion of the structure; and here, the roof had fallen in some time ago. The floor beneath the remaining debris was clay ceramic, unglazed and now cracked in places from weathering and the impact of the collapse of the shattered slate roofing tiles.

A few wooden posts, still showing their carving and stains, stood around the edges of the wide central floor area, big enough for their three horses to walk abreast with room for the dogs and then some. The posts showed fire damage, but not as badly as the remnants of the elevated areas on either side. There was almost no trace of them on their ground levels, but charred bits of carved screening and fire-blackened beams had fallen from what must have been a low gallery level above.

“The Jäger ate and sat on the bottom level during the day,” Ly Erg whispered, daring to make noise in the ruins of his father’s old home. “There was storage under the platforms; and at night they would sleep above and the hounds would take the first level. The horses stayed in the clearing outside.”

The only time there was a tight fit in the area was halfway down the hall, where a brick-lined firepit took up a third of the available space. They had to split, Nia and the hounds down one side, Zorya and Ly Erg down the other, and reconvene once the debris-cluttered hole had passed by. The hounds were getting more and more agitated, recognizing their own home but not feeling safe in it, staying silent as they slunk along.

At the end of longhouse portion of the Hall stood a heavy wood chair, carved and stained the same as the other wood in the building, but with added lacquer and paint in a scant few areas, gold and red on black. It was curiously untouched by fire or falling debris, though there was a pile of broken, screen-like carved wood sections, freestanding walls as thick as Nia’s arm.

Ly Erg let his hand brush the chair as they stopped around it.

“No Helm,” he murmured. “Of all the places-”

“Further in,” Zorya said quietly, jerking her head to the second area of the Jagdshall the broken wooden walls had presumably, in the past, separated from view- the merged roundhouse.

It took some maneuvering for the horses to get over the debris pile, and some false starts for the hounds as they slipped backwards in their scramble to get over, but they all managed.

Beyond the debris, the merged roundhouse stood mostly intact, in contrast to the longhouse that Nia could now see had been added on later. The roof here had fallen in only in patches, and the damage seemed to be from age and not fire or deliberate violence. This portion of the Jadgshall had less room than the public hall, but they all fit comfortably.

In the center of the room stood a large, round wooden table, the matching chairs pushed neatly under the tabletop.

Nia eyed the set-up with deep suspicion and resisted the urge to count the chairs.

“I’ve noticed a sort of…. _cultural affinity_ between the kingdoms here and some countries back home,” she said. “Am I right in thinking that England comes to _your_ people, Ly Erg, when he visits?”

“That shouldn’t be there,” he said, instead of answering. His attention was fixed on a large sheet of parchment, flipped over onto itself, sitting on the far side of the table.  

“This is all there is,” Zorya said, letting her voice rise to normal speaking level as Arion brought Nia to the parchment and she dismounted to take a closer look. “This is all there is of the Jagdshall. Where is the demon?”

“Be careful,” Ly Erg cautioned Nia as she reached for the parchment. “There is magic, there, and I don’t know what.”

Nia touched it cautiously with a finger. When nothing happened, she pushed the flipped-over portion of the sheet back, revealing an intricate, circular seal inscribed into most of the available space. The lines were cramped to conserve parchment area, the clearest aspect of the seal the central circle, filled with one simple device, and then the four concentric rings around it. There were symbols in them that Nia could make out if she squinted, but they were nothing she would classify as esoteric. She recognized them in a vague way, nothing specific, but the _look_ of them seemed… historical.  

“This is the sort of stuff Cassiel _loves_ messing around with,” she muttered to herself, recognizing Hebrew lettering in portions of the seal. “This might be why the demon isn’t here.”

“No,” Ly Erg said. He’d ridden up behind Nia and was looking at the seal over her shoulder. “It does not feel like the demon; and in the center, I _know_ that. That is the symbol of the Hunt and the Jagdsprinz.”

Taking a second look at it, Nia could see why. It looked like a simplified, stylized deer head; a long, distorted hexagon outlining the skull, the antlers represented by two bent lines on either side.

“The Horned Helm,” she guessed, and put her hand down flat on the parchment, over some of the lines, in preparation of resting her weight there so she could lean forwards to get a closer look at the rest of the symbols and writing.

As soon as she touched it, the Jagdshall disappeared.  

* * *

“Why is our whole morning free for a meeting?” Fadri asked as he took his seat next to Elke.

She just shrugged.

“General Beilschmidt came into my office last night and demanded it,” Sofie von Preuβen said. “He didn’t tell me what this was about, but he looked…”

She trailed off.

“He looked how?” Armas asked; but she shook her head silently and didn’t answer.

“Well, _that’s_ reassuring,” he muttered.

“Sounds _just_ like him,” Dietrich huffed. “He was _always-_ ”

The door opened, forcefully enough to be classed as a bang if Prussia had ever let it leave his grip to hit the wall. He did slam it shut, though, making Dietrich, who was closest to the door, wince.

Prussia stalked to the front of the room and spun on his heel, all military precision wrapped tight around rage, cold steel in his eyes as he raked his gaze across the others in the room, with an edge to everything that told Armas he hadn’t slept in at least a day.

“So your friend Xaver Kraus,” he said, eyes fixing on Elke and Fadri. “Anthemion. He was a terrorist.”

“He-” Elke started to say, too shocked to be outraged at the assertion about her friend.

Prussia gave her a silencing glare, expression going even harder, and bit out:

“Ladonia, start the presentation.”

The lights in the meeting room dimmed enough to make the light from the projector on the ceiling stand out brightly. On the wall shone a picture of a man’s face.

“This is Keld Schumacher, licensed psychologist from the Netherlands,” Prussia began. “He was hired back in 2047 by the European Union because they thought their Nations needed psychological help. He _would_ be completely irrelevant, except that, through him, we learned about this woman.”

The picture changed, fading into a new one.

“Hanna Schumacher. His sister; currently living in Rotterdam. She’s a conspiracy theorist, and runs an Internet forum dedicated to collecting and disseminating information about Nations.”

The image changed from Hanna Schumacher’s face to a screenshot of the home page of the forum.

“It has two levels- a public one, which anyone can access, read, and sign up for; and a secret, locked level that is visible in the site index _if_ you’re looking in the right place, but which you need administrator permission to open. The administrator is, of course, Hanna Schumacher. The locked forum is where all the dirty work happens.”

He tucked his hands into the small of his back, settling into a parade rest stance, every line of him sharp and tense.

“Xaver Kraus joined the public forum in 2042 as Anthemion. Hanna Schumacher gave him permission for the locked forum in 2044. Now, the public-forum-only members are one thing- so far as we have been able to tell, they are harmless. But the locked-forum-access members are, in plain language, _stalkers._ ”

A progression of images started to pass on the wall, each fading in for long enough that the people in the room could get a good look. They were all pictures of Nations, nothing official, candids taken from phones, commercial digital cameras, most of them non-professional, and some clearly stolen from security footage. They captured Nations in various moments of privacy, at public venues, on the street, with humans and other Nations.

“But there’s only one bit of information that we really care about at the moment.”

The picture of the Axis Nations from World War Two appeared, Germany and Prussia prominent in the center.

“They got this from a photography textbook. It was an example of World War Two color photography, and was completely harmless in that context. But the forum got a hold of it, and identified every person in it. This is the picture they identified Germany from.”

The World War Two photograph shrank down and moved to the side. A press pool image from an official event in the 2000s sometime appeared next to it. The word _‘Deutschseelevolk’_ was highlighted in the press pool caption.

“Now, I’m _sure_ those of you who were around for it remember when Cuba killed Adan Salcedo Esparza and put himself in charge of the government. This was the reaction on the forum.”

Some of the reactions were projected onto the wall, staying up long enough to be read before being replaced. After a minute or two, it came to rest on _‘Shit, I’m **GERMAN,** I don’t want a fucking **Nazi** running my government.’ _

“This is clearly a reaction to the picture shown before. This built and built and built until, later on, we get _this._ ”

 _'@Anthemion @Costus16 @Varicella @IneffiableSyntactics @Nike9- You serious about not letting Germany get his filthy hands on the government and making our country go to shit?’_ the new displayed message said. _‘I know people. There’s a bunch of nationalists who’ve no love for Nazi scum, spend most of their time denouncing them. They’ve got power. We could do this. We could put a stop to this before it starts. We could save Germany.’_

“You’ll notice that is addressed in part to Anthemion- Xaver Kraus,” Prussia said. “The other addressees have been identified as German citizens killed in the Fire, with exception of IneffiableSyntactics, who is still alive near Bremen. Now- this message is a _lie._ It was posted by someone under the username Elbast4Ge.stolz.”

The light from the presentation gave them enough illumination to see Prussia by; but enough to see each other. Now, his eyes focused on the darkened form of Elke, glaring her down.

“That’s one of my old usernames,” Elke said after a moment, voice low. “ _‘Elke Bastian, for Germanen Landesstolz’_. I haven’t used that formula in years. Since college. The Neo-Nazis that killed Manfried, they hacked my accounts away from me after some of them got arrested for the murder, and I never used it again. I filed a report about it. But I _never_ made an account on this site. I’d never _heard_ of it before you told me.”

“I believe you,” Prussia said. “ _Fortunately,_ that report about the hacking was on file here in Stuttgart as well as, presumably, with the federal government, so there’s _one_ copy that survives to provide proof that the accounts bearing those usernames really _were_ hacked away from you, giving _us_ enough room to reasonably support any public assertion you make that you stopped making usernames following that pattern once this had occurred.”

“Oh God,” Armas said quietly, as the severity of the PR catastrophe they’d just barely avoided dawned on him. “ _Oh God_. Without that report-”

“It would look like Elke and Xaver were cooperating to cause a catastrophe that would unseat the current government and leave a power vacuum, which you would be _conveniently_ placed to fill due to your overwhelming popularity,” Prussia said. “It’s a far-fetched theory in practice, but _someone_ would have come up with, and that would have been the only thing anyone talked about. The Provisional Government would be out. There wouldbe no _Vereinigtenrepublik Germanenlanden_ , the four of you would be irreparably slandered, and Dietrich and I would _die._ ”

“We’re still on very thin ice, even with that,” Sofie said quietly. “Gilbert-”

“It’s Armas’ job to make the public happy,” he told them. “I’m just telling you what you have to work with.”

There was silence as he gave everyone a moment to absorb the information.

“Now, according to Ladonia, the person who owned the IP address that logged in impersonating Elke was Michael Hirsch.”

His picture came up onto the wall.

“I’m sure you remember him, Elke. He wasn’t convicted for your brother, but it was a close thing. We can’t definitely prove anything about his motivations, because he died in the police stand-off during the Fire, but we think all he wanted to do was implicate you in an attack on Ludwig, or the Reichstag. We’re not sure which, because it’s a little unclear what the original plan was, because the entire thing got _completely_ out of hand.”

“Wait,” Fadri said. “Did Xaver- did he _know_ he was talking to a Nazi? Or did he think-”

“That he was talking to Elke?” Prussia asked. “I don’t think we’re ever going to know. But either way, he entered into this knowing there was going to be violence, and _he’s_ the one who planted the Reichstag bomb.”

“No,” Elke whispered.

“Yes,” Prussia said, and paused. “I’m… sorry. But he was. He posted about it.”

“But-” Elke tried to protest, and immediately was lost for words, adrift in her own half-hearted disbelief that one of the people she’d begun _Germanen für Landesstolz_ with could have sunk so low.

“Anyway,” Prussia continued. The word was a touch awkward- there was no good way to continue after a revelation like that. “As I was saying, it got _completely_ out of hand. We found out, because Ladonia thought to check, that there was more than one person logging in on the Elbastian account. One of them was this man.”

A new picture appeared, this a police photo.

“This is Christian Bauer. He was suspected as an extremist organizer for some time before the Fire, and it seems that, once he got access to the account, the entire _‘plan’_ , which hadn’t really existed prior to that point, became much more wide-reaching and much more complicated. We don’t have proof for this being the point of wider connection to the extremist groups that sparked most of the damage of the Fire, but we have very strong suspicions. Fortunately for us, _Bauer_ is still alive and living in Dresden, so as soon as we’re ready to move, we’ll arrest him and start interrogations.”

“When you say interrogations,” Fadri began.

“I _mean_ a damn police interrogation!” Prussia snapped. “When _I_ say _‘interrogations’,_ it’s not a fucking _codeword_ for _torture!_ ”

Fadri held up his hands placating.

“I had to check, General Beilschmidt,” he said.

Prussia still looked pissed off about the insinuation, but continued.

“We’re expecting that we’ll get the rest of the connections to the Fire groups from him, once he’s in custody. Now we move into the more- _international_ portion of this discussion.”

“There’s an international portion?” Armas asked weakly.

“Now, I doubt that any of you have heard of this,” Prussia said as Christian Bauer’s picture faded away to be replaced by a headline from an Italian newspaper site. “Because it’s primarily a family issue; but last month, Lovino Agresta- that’s Italia Romano, Elke, put your hand down- finished his vendetta with the Bottegante Camorra family in Naples rather… spectacularly and decisively. There was a vendetta in the first place because his youngest son Nico went and married Alfeo Bottegante’s daughter in 2048, and then they ran away to hide in Spain to escape him, and Bottegante has been losing men trying to kill Romano in revenge ever since. Near the end of last month, Nico made a really fucking _stupid_ decision and returned to the vicinity of Naples with his wife to visit Nico’s sister Guiditta, who to give you more scope on this issue, is married to Greece’s only child.”

 _“Why,”_ Fadri said to Armas. “Do you all have to marry each other?”

“Bottegante found out about it and ambushed them at the house they were staying at. By the time the police were called, they were all dead, so then they went to bust the larger Bottegante family. The _Polizia di Stato_ discovered a cache of laptops in Alfeo Bottegante’s house. One of them was Anika Abt’s.”

A list of names appeared on the wall.

“I got the list of the last owners of the recovered laptops from Romano. Every one of them was a victim of a murder from various places in Europe. Some of them were suspected to have been organized crime related, but most of them not. There were no obvious connections, until-”

He made a sweeping gesture at the list.

“We found that _every single one of them_ was a member of the secret forum.”

The list was replaced with a post from Hanna Schumacher updating the rules of membership on the locked forum.

“These changes to the rules were put in place very soon after the Fire, and after a series of increasingly-forceful admonitions by Hanna Schumacher that _no one_ was talk about the forum’s involvement in the disaster. This woman-”

A photograph of a crime scene.

“-went by CyberiteAgape on the forum. She is the first Camorra victim. She was also the most vocal about the involvement with the Fire and how badly they screwed up with that. We found a private message to Hanna Schumacher over the forum where she said she thought they should turn themselves in so they could avoid worse sentences when the police finally caught up with them. Our conjecture is that Hanna Schumacher somehow got in contact with the Camorra and ended up trading information on Italia Romano and his children for the Camorra assassinating, or arranging for others to assassinate, the forum members who violated her new rules.”

“Why,” Elke muttered to herself. “ _Why_ would you do that?”

“It gets better,” Prussia promised. “Earlier that year, before anyone was even _thinking_ about Germany, Hanna Schumacher traded information with a representative with the Korean Unification Movement. He gave her the names of China’s children and grandson, and _she_ gave him information on what they knew about Nations and what they could withstand. A couple months later, China’s apartment was bombed. For reasons I never privy to but now have suspicions about, China- Wang Yao, not the government- blamed the Koreans; and the Chinese government, who was currently having some _severe_ tension with North Korea, publically denounced _them_ for it. Now, _our_ information says the likely culprit was the Korean Unification Movement, given that the representative to Hanna Schumacher on the forum was one Rhee Eun, a student leader in the organization, who was studying abroad in Beijing at the time. _Coincidentally,_ China’s grandson was visiting at the time, and was _just_ at the right age to end falling into the same circles as college students- which would explain how the KUM knew about China’s family at all in the _first_ place.”

Sofie sighed, heavily.

“Is there _nothing_ your families aren’t tangled up in?” Fadri asked.

“Soon after,” Prussia continued, ignoring him. “South Korea declared war on North Korea, and the next year, the Korean Unification Movement had detonated one of North Korea’s own nuclear bombs on them. Obviously, we can’t do anything about this particular mess Hanna Schumacher got herself involved in- but it’s a good character lesson. This woman just _does not care_ who she gives information to.”

“Am I being excessively optimistic in hoping that the fact that China’s son is married to Romano’s _other_ daughter has no bearing on this?” Armas asked.

 _“Fuck,”_ Fadri said.

“Not that we can tell,” Prussia said, and the presentation started to fade, the lights going back up to full strength.

“So all this,” he concluded to the group. “Is to explain why Anika Abt tried to kill Dietrich back in September. She was a member of the secret forum under the name Clytemnestra, and presumably knew Xaver Kraus in both his pamphleteer and Internet capacity under the name Anthemion. She doesn’t appear to have been involved in the original plans that led to the Fire, but she clearly knew about them and took it upon herself to… ‘finish the job’.”

“And you have suggestions for how to handle this,” Armas said. “I hope.”

“As much as I want to take them down _now_ ,” he answered, jaw tightening. “We shouldn’t try to break this until we’ve consolidated Austria and Switzerland. Ideally, we tell the other governments of Europe, the ones with people directly involved in this mess who should be arrested, and get them to back us when we make _our_ arrests and go public with the information about Xaver Kraus’s involvement with Nazis and the Fire.”

“Why would we go public with that?” Sofie demanded. “That’s exactly the sort of thing we don’t want people to know about.”

“Because if you don’t go public with it it will just come back to bite you in the ass!” Prussia snapped. “You should _know_ that, Sofie! You’ll ruin your reputation more by trying to hide it than by putting it out there yourself- and yeah, it won’t be fun to live through either way; but at least if you give full disclosure, you’ll have people remembering that you refused to _lie_ about it. You acknowledged that there was something there, and that you were very open and clear about your non-involvement with it. That will cut the legs out from most of the credibility of the people who will _insist_ that this whole thing was a planned coup before they can start screaming about it all over the media.”

“We’ll put just enough doubt in everyone’s minds that most of them will stay on our side,” Armas said, understanding. “But we can’t put together a new country with that hanging over us. We have to be… sneaky, about not being sneaky.”

“Exactly.”

* * *

Early Christmas morning, before Liesl went to meet her Princess and Prince and Denmark for holiday services in Vaduz, she went to Martigny with a flask of hot chocolate, a tin of cookies, and a small, wrapped present.

She bypassed her brother’s house in Martigny completely, first setting foot in Switzerland further up the mountain his house stood on in the Forêt Fama where it overlooked Martigny-Croix from the south.

It was a two-minute walk to the clearing where the House stood. It was beginning to fall into disrepair again, a year after the demon had been forced from the premises a second time.

Switzerland was sitting on a camping stool, watching. Liesl handed him the hot chocolate and placed the cookie tin in the snow next to her brother’s gun. He curled his hands around the flask and took a deep drink- he’d been out since before dawn- as was his custom now, ever since the Vatican had come to him and informed him of the less-than-exorcised status of the demon, and the coming confrontation. He would stay out past nightfall, as well, and leave only to get food, relieve himself, and retrieve his laptop once it had fully recharged so he could attend to what work duties lent themselves to completion on a computer in the middle of the woods.

“I brought your present, too,” Liesl told him; and Sebastian smiled at his younger sister and took it.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll open it later.”

She looked to the House.

“Anything, yet?”

“Nothing.”

* * *

It was hard to enjoy a party when you had learned, only a couple days ago, that you were being stalked by people from all over the continent, and hadn’t had any idea about it.

It was worse when the party was with other people who were in the exact same situation, but you couldn’t tell them about it yet, because the entire situation needed to be managed politically.

Finland sat down next to him on the very nice couch Armas was occupying as a reason to stay away from talking much. If anyone asked, he could legitimately say that he was keeping an eye on Dietrich- the best moment of the day so far had been when he’d given the Nation his very first Christmas presents, a set of the tools and cups to make and serve Turkish coffee and a bag of fresh-roasted beans to grind himself, since he couldn’t stand any of the European sorts. Germanenlanden had managed to interact cordially with Sweden and Finland while grinding some of the beans, and was currently actually getting _friendly_ with Poland over the first batch of coffee, smiling like Armas couldn’t ever remember seeing him before.

Less-happily, his vantage point on the couch was also giving him a good view of Teodozja and Mieczysław. Sure, he was married to Lena now- she was happily talking to Sweden at the moment- but they had a _child_ together, and they were still close.

“What’s going on there?” his father asked, tracing down his line of sight to the pair.

Armas quickly checked to make sure Roksana wasn’t anywhere nearby.

“ _Isa_ ,” he said quietly. “How bad of an idea would it be to ask her on a date?”

“You haven’t already?” Finland asked, mildly surprised.

“Finland does _not_ get that tabloid,” Armas muttered, covering his eyes with a hand.

“I don’t,” his father said cheerfully. “But there are things called scanners and e-mail lists.”

When Armas didn’t respond, Timo took a second, closer look at his son; then leaned in with an air of concern.

“Armas?” he asked quietly. “What’s wrong?”

The first thing Armas could think of, of course, was the thing he was under orders not to talk about yet.

“Work,” he said. “Stress. There’s-”

He cut himself off.

Timo put an arm around him.

“There’s what?”

“I can’t tell you,” Armas said miserably. He could feel tears- frustration, anxiety, being emotionally wrought out- start to well up. “You’ll find out, eventually. Soon, maybe, I think; but I _can’t tell you_.”

Timo pulled him down so Armas was bent over, his head on his father’s shoulder.

“Its politics, isn’t it?” he asked, stroking his son’s hair.

“Yeah,” Armas muttered.

“I understand if you can’t tell me,” Finland continued. “But it’s something different than just trying to pull a country together?”

Armas nodded.

“I’m sorry,” Finland told him. “Governments are hard enough without that. So would going out with Teodozja make you happy?”

Armas pulled away to look at him, caught off-guard by the sudden change in subject.

“Yes?” he said.

“Then I think you should ask her,” Timo said. “Because you deserve some happiness right now, Armas; and if you’re not doing it because you think it will be too much added worry- there’s never a good time to do it. I know. You just go for it.”

“I don’t think I like that idea.”

“Right now is actually a good time,” Timo continued, blithely accepting his complete and utter lack of subtlety. “There’s other people around and everything. You’re being forced to socialize so it won’t be nearly so awkward as if you try to ask her when you’re out on one of your coffee dates.”

Armas eyed him suspiciously.

“How do you know about the coffee dates?”

“Did you actually _read_ the article the tabloid ran about you?” his father asked, gently pushing him off the couch and towards Teodozja. “Or did you just look at the front cover and start getting embarrassed?”

* * *

Gilbert was very thankful that Zell and Heinrich took Feliciano for a talk almost immediately after he showed up- not because he didn’t particularly _want_ not to punch the adulterous little bastard in the face for the shit he’d pulled on Ludwig, but because the family holiday party and that wouldn’t go over well, even if Antonio would probably be very understanding and not actually kick him out of his house for it.

“Did you _really_ have to come in uniform, _Vater_?” Gianna asked him after hello hugs and kisses. Gilbert took Emanuele, now almost two-and-a-half years old, from her.

“I was working, Gianna,” he said apologetically, bouncing her son up and down a little. Emanuele gurgled happily. Gilbert flicked the toddler’s nose with a finger and made little baby-talk sounds at him.

“It’s _Christmas, Vater_ ,” Gianna said.

“It’s something that can’t wait,” Gilbert told her, handing Emanuele back. “You’ll hear about it later. Where’s your _Pater_?”

He had to say hello- and keeping himself close to the third Italian brother meant he didn’t have to be with Zell and Heinrich, Ludwig and Nia unspoken of between them and the oppressive silence of the political secrets he and Zell were keeping, for the moment; or with Lovino and the same secrets, Tai a sharp reminder of Hanna Schumacher, Nico jumpy and silent with the shadows of murdered _camorristi_ in his wide eyes, Ditta holding together better but barely contributing to the hushed speculations Cato and Cenzo and Zheng were making about why Feliciano was being shunned by their father, his other half; and their uncle; his church.

His little section of the Beilschmidt-Vargas clan was as dysfunctional as ever, the dynamic between he and Rahel- which hadn’t been warm by any means before he and she and Cristoforo had taken a complete leave of their collective common sense and decided to have _children_ together, of all things- maintained at its previous status quo only because she had Heinrich as a kind of substitute for Cass, who had taken her name but left her legacy and her culture and any connection they’d once had in the dust. Gianna had quietly dropped her mother’s name in favor of ‘ _Pietri’_ and then, upon marriage, _‘Miccichelo’_ ; and she’d committed herself to working for the Vatican and was staunchly Catholic but she’d given the same respect and dedication to her mother’s faith when she was young and knew her Tanakh and Siddur Shalem just as well as her Bible and Rosary, and Emanuele would grow up knowing his _Savta_ as much as his _Avus_ and if he decided he was more Jew than Catholic then Gianna would stand behind him- but the strongest tie in the family was the triad of them, Gilbert and Cristoforo and Gianna.

 _They_ would not fall apart, even if the rest of the family disintegrated around them.

“Zell and Heinrich were talking to him,” Gianna told him, pointing to one of the rooms down the hall.

“We won’t be very long,” Gilbert promised, and ambled down the hallway until he found the right room. It wasn’t particularly hard- it was the only one with the closed door. He tapped on the wood perfunctorily before opening in.

“Please go away,” Cristoforo asked him from the armchair, voice muffled by his hands.

Alarmed, Gilbert stepped through the door and closed it again behind him.

“Cris- Kit. Hey, Kit,” he coaxed, kneeling in front of the other man and gently prying his hands from his face, revealing silently-dripping tears. “ _Hey._ What did Zell and Heinz say, huh?”

“It was about Honalee,” Cristoforo mumbled after some moments. “I- they went looking for Ludwig, you know.”

“I know.”

“And- and they didn’t _find_ him, and I thought that meant they didn’t find _anything;_ but they _didn’t,_ they _did_ find dead Nations-”

“Okay?”

“Gilbert,” Cristoforo said, voice weighted with hurt he didn’t quite have the abilities of self-delusion to make sound confused. “We’re not going to Heaven.”

Gilbert took a deep, steadying breath and closed his eyes momentarily.

“That’s not like you, Kit, to say that,” he said. “I mean- I’m not- It’s not unexpected.”

He smiled, weakly, trying to reassure his friend, his co-parent.

“I was still kind of hoping for the whole contrition-and-forgiveness thing; can’t blame me for that, huh? But I know there are some things you can’t forgi-”

Cristoforo had been shaking his head, silently, but now spoke again.

“No,” he said. “No, no; it’s not like _that,_ they said. It’s-”

He looked Prussia in the eye.

“It’s _Irkalla,_ Gilbert. Eresh… Ereshkigal. _That’s_ where Nations go when they die. The oldest pagan story, _that’s_ our fate- I thought, when I heard from my brothers that they’d seen Rome, that it was a reaffirmation of, of God’s power and grace but it _wasn’t,_ it was _pagan_ \- I _know_ Christianity is right, Gilbert, I _know_ it, like I know my people and I- how can I be a Nation, how can I be the representation of all my people, when God doesn’t, doesn’t even have _space_ for me-”

Gilbert caught him up in a tight hug.

“Maybe they were wrong,” he tried to reassure Cristoforo. “I mean, the Kings of Honalee are _powerful,_ but-”

“They talked to Luitgard, Gilbert.”

Prussia froze.

“Luitguard?” he whispered.

“And I _know_ they did,” Cristoforo said. “Unless I’m not the only one you call the Berlin house _‘Brandenburg’s house’_ around? Because _I_ haven’t told anyone.”

There was a strange tightness, a dryness, in his chest and throat.

“Only you,” Gilbert said. “Did she- Is she well?”

“They didn’t say she wasn’t,” Cristoforo told him. “And it was _Luitguard,_ Gilbert, who told them that dead Nations were in Irkalla. _She_ said that we do not have a place with God; that God’s promises are only for _humans_ and that _we_ are not. Gilbert-”

He sounded much more stricken, suddenly.

“-our _children_ are human. When they die, we’re never going to-”

Gilbert hadn’t decided, right up until that moment, whether he was going to try to talk about the theory that was slowly gaining ground with him, the theory he and England and Romano had been keeping to themselves.

“We might,” he cut in. “Some of them. Romano and I and England, we’ve- we talked, after Nico.”

“Nico,” Cristoforo said dully. “Oh, _Nico._ ”

“Yeah; Nico. And then we learned about the plan with Nia, and we knew about Cass; and well… they’re not exactly… human.”

“Of _course_ they’re human.”

“I’m not sure they are,” Gilbert disagreed reluctantly. “Nico and Cass aren’t witches, Kit; they didn’t get their magic through some deal with a demon. It’s just _in_ them. _Humans_ don’t have magic just _in_ them. That’s fairy stuff. Honalee stuff.”

He paused.

“ _Nation_ stuff.”

“I know you’re trying to make me feel better,” Cristoforo said. “But they’re _not **Nations,**_ Gilbert, just our children.”

“Yeah,” Gilbert said. “But, Kit- _we’re_ not human.”

“We were when-”

“You sure?” Prussia challenged. “Because I think we’ve been thinking about it the wrong way. I think we should have been thinking in terms of repression, not complete loss. And don’t tell me that, when you came back to yourself, it didn’t feel _‘like a gate had opened back up in my head’_ , because that is _exactly_ what you said when we talked about it. That’s not loss and restoration. That’s repression. And if we weren’t _human_ when we had our kids, then-”

“Giovanna and Cassiel are _human._ ”

“I think they _think_ they’re human,” Gilbert said. “I think _we_ think they’re human. And that’s probably enough. But Cass and Nico do magic and we’re pretty sure Øystein does too; and Nia got drafted to be Jagdsprinz. That’s not human.”

“I don’t _want_ to see them in Irkalla,” Cristoforo told him. “I want them to get to Heaven, to have God’s love and peace for the rest of eternity.”

“I’d like for them to have that, too,” Prussia said. “But if they can’t have that- I can and will be happy with a pagan afterlife that won’t break up our families.”

* * *

Teodozja had been vacillating the entire gathering about whether to approach Armas, or let him come to her.

He hadn’t _missed_ their coffee meeting this week; but he’d shown up so strained and so haggard that she’d been on the verge of ordering him to take the day off and come to her apartment and, and _sleep_ or watch a movie or _something,_ anything to distract him.

But Armas had stayed only long enough to order his coffee and force out the perfunctory question about how the past week had been for her, and she’d tried to tell him but the atmosphere at their table was oppressive. She managed short sentences, no real detail, and they sat there together for fifteen minutes, Armas staring blankly into his cooling coffee and completely ignoring his pastry.

At fifteen minutes, Teodozja had reached across the table to hold his hands, to try to comfort him, to try to get him to talk and just let everything _out-_

-but Armas stood her touch only for a few seconds, then stood abruptly, muttering an apology with… _sorrow_ behind it, for some reason, and left.

Teodozja hadn’t known what to make of it. And she didn’t know what to make of it now, the way Armas had sat on the couch the entire time so far, away from everyone else, when he seemed to enjoy the idea of a combined party, before.

At least, the last time she’d looked over at him, his father was talking to him- by their positions, comforting him, perhaps.

So she was surprised, just a little, when a few minutes, he interrupted her conversation with Mieczysław.

Armas just appeared in the corner of her vision, and she’d turned to give him a welcoming smile, and he’d looked at Mieczysław and said: “I’d like to talk to Teodozja for a bit? In private?”

Mieczysław glanced over at Teodozja before answering, getting quick confirmation that she _did,_ in fact, want to talk to him.

“Okay,” he said; and went to go pay attention to Roksana.

Armas took Teodozja off to the bedroom Poland was using, closing the door between that room and public room of the hotel suite the Nation had booked for the gathering.

“How are you doing?” Teodozja asked after the door closed. “You _really_ weren’t well during coffee, and-”

The man’s expression just went so _tired_ and near breaking that she cut herself off.

“I can’t tell you,” he said. “It’s… state stuff. Politics. _International_ politics; that we can’t bring up just yet. You _will_ hear about it. I just can’t-”

“Okay,” Teodozja said. “But I hope you can talk about it soon. You look _terrible._ ”

Armas’ face did something strange- it was like he’d tried to swallow in fear and gone a bit cross-eyed at the same time. It was more amusing than it should have been; and she ended up smiling, just a little.

“Well,” she told Armas. “I’m not sure that’s an _improvement-_ ”

“I had something else I wanted to ask,” he said very quickly, all in a rush of breath that left without air, and, it looked like, any more words.

“Okay?” Teodozja asked after a moment of quiet.

“I enjoy our coffee days,” he said; and that was _not_ a question, not at all-

“I enjoy our coffee days and I enjoy talking to you and I like Roksana and I know that you’re in college and have to take care of her and I’m putting together a government and have this, this _other_ thing, but-”

He stalled again; and went very, very red. Teodozja had to try very, very hard not to laugh at him.

“I’d like to turn a coffee day into a coffee _date,_ ” he said, and snapped his mouth shut.

“A _date_ date?” Teodozja asked, going warm and fluttery in her gut. It wasn’t completely from suppressed laughter.

“Yes, a date,” Armas said, relaxing slowly. “If you want.”

“I _do_ want,” she told him. “Let’s try it. Next week?”

He’d gotten past his nervousness enough to smile.

“Next week,” he agreed. He was about to open the door when Teodozja decided to test the waters and took his hand. There was a moment when neither of them moved, but they ended up smiling at each other, so they went out like that.

“ _Tebrikler_!” Dietrich saluted them with his coffee cup when they appeared. Timo had sat down at the table with him and Feliks, and was forgoing the coffee in favor of the lokum Dietrich had brought as contribution to the party. They weren’t, perhaps, exactly appropriate for the season, but the candy known to the rest of the world as Turkish Delight was well-known enough that there was a reasonable expectation it would be finished off at the party.

“None of your sass, Dietrich,” Armas told him, recognizing the dancing light in his eyes and the hint of sharpness in his smile that meant the young Nation was mocking him- kindly, not the ice and sneering dismissal he reserved for Prussia and most of his neighbors.

“Why, but Mr. Liaison from the German Provisional-”

“ _Stop_. You are _actually_ a four-year-old-”

“But yet you work for me; and I have it on good authority I’m to sass my government employees as often as possible.”

“And this _‘good authority’_ is _Romano_ , I bet-”

It was easy to forget, over coffee and sweets and banter, matters of work.

* * *

Heinrich was coming to _hate_ family holiday gatherings. It was hard to remember the last time they hadn’t been stained with grief, or fear.

Zell had flung herself into work, _hard,_ since they’d gotten back. It worried him, a little, hearing about it from Miervaldis. He had a saved draft in his e-mail he hadn’t gotten up the nerve to send yet, because what he had to say to her was _‘you’re acting like Vati did when he went back to being Germany’_ and that month was one of the worse ones in their lives. He didn’t want to add anything like another difficult portion, especially now that he’d seen his sister again.

She’d been cutting her hair shorter and shorter in the few years since Louis had been born, an inch or two at a time, always long enough to keep pulling back- but she’d showed up to the Christmas party with an ear-length bob with bangs down to her eyebrows and back in her mourning black, overcoat gloves skirt jacket tie shirt shoes and pantyhose, which he would have been worrying more about except that she’d added gold jewelry to it, barbell studs in her ears and her crucifix stark against her clothes and the German eagle pin she never, _ever_ wore when she was doing business bright against the black on her tie.

This was an outfit to make a Statement, so he was unsurprised when it was Zell who snatched Venice up by the arm and dragged him into the room they’d chosen, shut the door sharply, gave their father her best piercing authoritarian glare- another thing in the e-mail he wouldn’t send, that she’d been falling back on the harsher management techniques she’d learned from watching _Vati_ in meetings when she was younger- and said with as much icy venom as she could muster:

“How _dare_ you, Feliciano Costa Vargas, _Italia Veneziano- how **dare** you._”

Heinrich was confused, now- the anger made sense, he knew his sisters’ anger; they both _seethed_ but Zell seethed while up on her dignity like Sicily did and Nia seethed until she started shouting and taking it out on people like Romano did and that was why Zell worked in international politics and Nia didn’t- but this wasn’t international politics, this was family tension and yes he _knew_ that Zell called their family with names like _‘Spain’_ and _‘Signor Agresta’_ and _‘Herr Preuβen’_ at work but _this wasn’t work_ and you just _didn’t_ call one of your parents by their full name, you just _didn’t **do**_ that-

“I don’t want an apology from you!” Zell was saying. “The people you _should_ be apologizing to _aren’t **here-**_ they will _never_ be here! _Vati_ is **_gone;_** and Nia will be _dead_ soon! She might _already_ be dead! We may never actually _know_ when; all we can do is _wait_ until someone comes to tell us, or the _demon_ returns! _I do **not WANT** an apology from you- I **want** an **EXPLANATION!**_ ”

Actually, come to think of it, Heinrich wouldn’t mind an explanation either.

For a moment it seemed like Feliciano was still reeling, still trying to adjust to the sudden verbal onslaught; but then he just looked resigned, sad.

“About Amphitrite?” he asked quietly.

“ _Yes_ about Amphitrite!”

Heinrich had taken a chair before his father had come into the room. Now, Veneziano took another, leaving Zell the only one of them standing, arms crossed and looming forebodingly.

“I always loved the sea,” Veneziano began slowly. “There were other Nations who made their living off the sea, a _lot_ of them actually- but I was the one who loved it for itself as well, not just for the things I could take from it or the trade routes I could have over it. I wanted- I wanted to know everything that was in it, how it worked; just to know because everything about it is just so _wonderful._ And I- this was back when I used magic, when it was just something that Nations _did_ not a whole lot but sometimes and I- I was out at the salt farms. This was before Rome, I don’t know how long, but I hadn’t met him yet and I saw some nereids in the water and they were playing and I scared them a little but I followed them and I found Póli Thálassas and I met Amphitrite and I went back, a lot, and we talked and she taught me things about water and about the things that live in it and I learned the language of the nereids so when I saw them I could talk to them and they learned Venetian so sometimes they’d talk to my little children.

And then _Rome_ came, and he forced me to live at his villa in Rome and there wasn’t any ocean and he didn’t want me going even to Ostia by myself but then he started getting old and wanted to wander around his old war grounds and he dragged me _all_ across Italy and the Empire and I learned a lot! But the best bit was when he finally went home and I could run away back to Venice. The first thing I did when I saw the lagoon was dive back in and go see Amphitrite and I gave her the bulla Rome made me, the gold good luck charm? And then it became a _thing,_ I’d bring her something gold, a necklace or a bracelet or some earrings but after a while it was usually rings and it just sort of became a _tradition_ then, that it was rings; and then somebody asked me why I kept buying gold things when I wasn’t wearing any of them and I told them and there was a celebration and…”

He trailed off and waved his hand, vaguely dismissing the origin of centuries of civic ceremony.

“Eventually we got married and that was an ‘we agreed and Amphitrite told the other Kings and I met them really briefly’ sort of thing and everything was good, _really_ good; and I started going less and less because there was so much to deal with _here_ and eventually the nereids would just take the rings and I’d show up when I could and then I- after Lepanto. After I _knew_ I wasn’t measuring up to France and Spain and England and even the Netherlands. I stopped going at all. I loved the sea just as much as ever but it _hurt_ too because it wasn’t _mine_ any more in the same way it had been and then I hadn’t been in _years_ and never _forgot_ about her but after I never saw the nereids in the lagoon for a while I just… I just assumed. That we were done. And some of that was I didn’t _want_ to know one way or the other because I didn’t want to know that the Sea had abandoned me instead of just being, being _stolen_ from me; and then I wasn’t even _Venice_ any longer and what was the point?”

 “You’re awfully good at making excuses, Veneziano,” Zell told him; and it still sounded _wrong_ that she call him that.

“And then I met your _Vati_ and he was so _young_ and he didn’t have any friends and he, he liked _me_ he liked _Venice_ I mean he liked Rome and Florence too but he liked _Venice_ and it was really, really nice to have a friend even if he got impatient and yelled a lot but-”

He was speaking more quickly now, like he was trying to fit everything else in before Zell lost her temper completely.

“-then I realized that it was because he needed _help_ he didn’t know what he was doing and then we had the _next_ war and I _couldn’t_ just leave him to that even when he was being terrible so I came back when nobody else wanted to have anything to do with him and then _I_ liked _him_ and _he_ liked _me_ and I didn’t think Amphitrite had anything to do with this because we hadn’t talked in so long and I didn’t want to go _back_ just in case there _was_ still something because Ludwig didn’t know a _thing_ about magic and especially after the demon he didn’t want to hear about it and, with Amphitrite, it would be easier to just not-”

 _“Easier?”_ Zell forced out between her teeth. **_“Easier?”_**

“I didn’t mean-”

“You just wanted to avoid being held _accountable,_ ” Zell spat at him. She was trembling like she was about to cry. “You didn’t- and now-”

She spun on her heel and fled the room.

“Zell!” Feliciano called; and Heinrich got up to follow his sister and father out. _“Zell-”_

He caught up to her in the main room, where other conversation was swiftly falling silent at the spectacle.

Zell turned at him, fully crying now.

_“I thought you loved him!”_

“I _do, cara,_ I-”

“If you _loved_ him you wouldn’t have _tricked_ him! If you _loved_ him, you wouldn’t have _used_ him-”

“I didn’t use-”

“You _cheated_ on your **_wife_** with _Vati_ and now _Nia’s **paying**_ for it!” Zell screamed. “Don’t _talk_ to me; Veneziano!”

And this was why Heinrich hated holiday gatherings.

* * *

By the morning of the twenty-ninth of December, when the space shuttle was to be launched, Gilbert had a massive headache about the entire thing.

“Where’s Serafina DiAngeli?” he asked Cassiel when he entered the viewing room set aside for the government representatives and Navin Industries’ executive board. In what was presumably a gesture of goodwill, or perhaps just political astuteness, Austria, Switzerland- leaving his watch post on the House just for this occasion- and the German Lands were seated together. England, here with his granddaughter _again_ , had shown up without an invitation; and Liechtenstein and Denmark were in personal attendance with their joint royal family. Teodozja Łukasiewicz was presumably filling in for Poland; but she could have just been there with Armas. Gilbert didn’t really know, and didn’t particularly care at the moment.

He was much more concerned about where his son’s errant companion from Honalee was.

“She’s waiting!” was all the reply he got, because Cassiel had been on his way out to check in with mission control and on the television crews crowded into the back of the room for a good view as Prussia had been coming in.

So Gilbert found himself at a bit of a loss- certainly he wasn’t going to try to talk with Switzerland and Austria. That was Dietrich’s job, or Fadri’s.

“Do you take her _everywhere?_ ” he asked England, insinuating himself into the other Nation’s circle of conversation.

“Not at all,” England said. “Eglantine comes when there’s something for her to learn.”

“And what’s there for her to learn at a space launch?”

“I’m going to try to figure out the magic involved, General Beilschmidt,” Eglantine told him. “Even if I don’t understand all of it, I can make conjectures and then Øystein will check them.”

Øystein, unlike _some_ people, had the decency to look embarrassed when Gilbert spent a moment glaring at him for the deception-by-omission he’d made in never mentioning his magic to any of the rest of them.

“I’m going to go talk to Ásdís,” he muttered, and shuffled away.

“What’s wrong with Mr. Brynjarsson?” Eglantine asked Tomoko. “He’s been surly all day. And Ásdís is all jumpy.”

“It’s nerves, I guess,” Tomoko said. “They’ve been with Cassiel since the beginning, and this is their latest, biggest project. It will look very bad for them and the company if anything goes wrong.”

“Mr. Navin isn’t nervous.”

“Cassiel is never nervous about _anything,_ ” Gilbert scowled. “And it will look bad for _us,_ too- how _certain_ are you that this is going to work, Tomoko?”

She shrugged.

“This was Cass’s project,” she said. “And Ms. DiAngeli’s. We didn’t know about it until after _you_ did. Ásdís and Øystein were really upset with him and they’ve been worried about it ever since. _I_ never worked on it, and I don’t think Øystein did either, and it’s usually him and Cass on the big things. I just do the new medical technology.”

“And where did these astronauts get trained?” he demanded. “It’s only been a few months. That _can’t_ be enough time.”

“That was Cass again,” Tomoko told them. “He must have been training them while he was having the ship built, because they were almost done when he told us the ship was finished and we were giving it to the government.”

And _this_ was why Gilbert had a headache.

“There are _very_ few answers about this entire thing, Tomoko, and I _want_ some,” he said. “I’ve been _trying_ to get someone to talk to me about it, but no one ever gets back to me and Cassiel won’t meet-”

“I _wonder_ why,” England muttered.

“We don’t know _who_ built this and we don’t know _where_ the astronauts were trained or _who_ they are or _how_ this ship is supposed to work or the mission go-”

“Well, Ásdís and Øystein should know _that,_ ” Tomoko said. “Ásdís had to know to have the press releases written and make the schedule for today; and Øystein’s been going over the blueprints for _weeks._ ”

 _“Thank you,”_ Gilbert said. “For being the only person in your entire company who actually wants to _tell_ anyone anything.”

With that, he left the conversation and headed straight for Ásdís and Øystein, who were huddled by themselves in a corner with their backs to everyone, whispering to each other.

“Mr. Brynjarsson, Ms. Geirsdottir,” he said to interrupt them.

“General Beilschmidt,” Øystein replied; and this close, Gilbert could see what Eglantine had been talking about.

Øystein was stiff in his movement and carriage, and there was a nervous frenetic energy he was trying to keep hidden. Ásdís just looked _terrible-_ if she passed you by quickly she could be passed off as frazzled, but standing still, standing close, he could see all the little indications of panic being pushed down.

He folded his arms across his chest and mustered up a severe expression that he hoped didn’t come across as angry, only determined.

“There are a _lot_ of questions about this mission and I don’t have satisfactory answers for _any_ of them,” he said. “And the way you two are acting is _not_ inspiring any confidence.

Ásdís and Øystein shared a long look. As Gilbert waited for a reply, Cassiel’s voice came over the sound system, announcing five minutes until launch.

“We’d love to answer your questions,” Øystein burst out. “But we can’t.”

“This _is_ actually supposed to be _our_ space program; no matter how much of Cassiel’s pet project-”

“We’d love to answer your questions,” Øystein repeated, slowly, looking him straight in the eye. “But we _can’t._ ”

That made Gilbert pause and think a moment, narrowing his eyes at the two of them.

“How much of a _‘can’t’_?” he asked; and the sound system _ping_ ed to signal two minutes until launch.

Ásdís’s face was suddenly a mask of horror.

“Empty room down the hall,” Øystein hissed to her. “You can hold out that long, Ásdís, _please-_ ”

Alarmed, Prussia didn’t fight it when Ásdís grabbed his wrist in a death grip and dragged him out of the room, leaving Øystein behind to deal with the others.

* * *

Cassiel bounced back and forth between the heels and balls of feet, filled with excitement that he had to remember not to try and show _too_ much.

The ship launch went off perfectly, the craft- Serafina had told him to call it _‘Enlightenment’_ , and the secret hidden in that name had been too good for him to disagree- taking off just as smoothly as promised under the direction of mission control and piloting of the Pict astronauts, disguised as human women.

Hopefully they were as good actors as he’d been promised, otherwise this was going to be rather awkward.

Various media outlets had been provided limited access to the ship in the weeks before the launch, and most of them had come away describing _Enlightenment_ as a rich man’s toy, along the same lines as the private spacecraft that people with extraordinarily large amounts of money and time had been proposing since the turn of the century.

Cassiel was the first of those people to actually make it all the way. So what if he’d had help?

As discreetly as possible, he eyed the television crews who had been granted a spot in mission control. They needed to be alert.

One of the mission control operatives- another disguised Pict- was keeping a running count of _Enlightenment_ ’s progress.

10 kilometers, 20 kilometers-

30, 40, 50-

The traditional definition of space was at 81 kilometers above Earth’s surface, where control surfaces on airplanes stopped working; but 100 kilometers was where you needed terminal velocity to maintain lift.

80 kilometers, 90 kilometers-

100 kilometers-

“It can’t possibly be going that fast,” the scientist hired by one of the big international news outlets muttered; and Cassiel smiled to himself.

“ _Enlightenment **is**_ going that fast,” he said. “If you’d checked the briefing packet we provided, you would have seen that it accelerates at a _much_ higher rate than anything that’s been launched before.”

The scientist glared at him- affronted by his success, Cassiel decided.

The International Space Station orbited at 400 kilometers.

“When do you drop the extra weight- the expended fuel tanks? You _have_ to stop accelerating _some_ time.”

“Never- there are none,” Cassiel said. “And no we don’t.”

250 kilometers… 300 kilometers…

 “You _have_ to-” the scientist tried insisting.

“Why should we?”

400 kilometers- at 600 they’d pass the Hubble Space Telescope. It was just barely hanging on- new repair missions grudgingly approved only because no one really _wanted_ to contribute to the rest of the construction, launch, and repair of the proposed James Webb Telescope. Orbiting at 1.5 _million_ kilometers from Earth? _Really?_

“Why aren’t you _stopping?_ ”

“To prove we can,” Cassiel said. “And that we don’t _have_ to.”

They passed 600 kilometers and Cassiel grinned, waiting for the burst that was to come at 800.

800 kilometers… 200,000.

“ _What the **fuck**_ just _happened_?”

“You’ve just witnessed the future of space travel.”

“No,” the scientist said, shaking her head violently. “No, no, _no-_ you _have_ to be lying- you can’t _do_ that-”

“I can do a _lot_ of things,” Cassiel said; and _Enlightenment_ hit 210,000 kilometers and burst again.

400,000 kilometers. They were on the other side of the moon. The scientist was frantically trying to deny that any of this was possible, despite that the footage from the cameras mounted on the _Enlightenment_ had _clearly_ shown the Space Telescope _disappear_ within the span of a few seconds; and now the moon was suddenly dwindling on their tail.

400,400 kilometers.

 _‘Uh… Mission Control, this is Enlightenment,’_ the head astronaut said. She sounded properly confused to Cassiel.

“This is Mission Control, _Enlightenment_ ,” one of her fellow disguised Picts answered. “Everything okay up there? The burst engines holding up- you’re turning around in another 9,600 kilometers.”

_The burst engines are fine, Mission Control. It’s only that there’s someone else up here.’_

“I don’t know _what_ you’re playing at here, Mr. Navin!” the scientist exclaimed hotly. “But it stops right here, _right **now-**_ ”

Just on schedule, the Pict flagship loomed in _Enlightenment_ ’s cameras.

* * *

It was too late it was too late it was _too late-_

“Too late for _what?_ ” General Beilschmidt was demanding, and Ásdís realized that she’d been whispering to herself as she led them down the hallway and closed them in the room.

“Sit down,” the Nation urged, taking her hands. She realized she’d been shaking. “Hey. We’ll _handle_ it. Whatever it is, we’ll handle it- we might _hate_ it and I might never forgive Cass for whatever-it-is but we’ll _handle-_ ”

They couldn’t they couldn’t they couldn’t _no one_ could handle _this-_

“I wanted to tell you I wanted to tell my father I wanted to tell _everyone_ but I _couldn’t_ I was too scared and Øystein was too scared and she said the _last_ time we barely made it out _alive_ and we _couldn’t_ tell anyone there was nothing _anyone_ could do we don’t have _anything_ that can stand up-”

“ _Ásdís!”_ General Beilschmidt interrupted, shaking her a little. “Take a deep breath and make some _sense-_ ”

“-I _wanted_ to tell you and England and Romania and Norway when you _came_ but she _disappeared_ Payton and the others and _stole_ some poor woman and she said there were _others_ and when I saw the _astronauts_ I _knew_ but I _had_ to say it was a deliberate decision on the part of the company to give legitimacy to our diversity policies _-_ ”  

“You knew _what,_ Ásdís!”

_“You asked what Serafina DiAngeli was and she’s **not** from Honalee she’s **Pict** they’re **waiting** for us up there-”_

* * *

_He/I was small and everyone else and the room were big. He/I was standing very straight, very proper, and his/my new formal clothes were very nice. He/I liked how his/my reflection looked in the mirrors lining the wall of the room opposite the windows. He/I kept stealing glances._

_He/I looked grown-up in the mirrors, even though he/I was still so_ small, _and looked even smaller next to his/my brother. Brother tall, and a_ real _soldier, one who’d been in battles for_ ages _and had been going to fight since he was as small as he/I was._

 _This was an official occasion, and_ very _important; he/I was finally,_ finally _getting what he/I deserved, the power and the glory of a_ real _empire, one that even beaten_ France-

_-the coronation in the Hall of Mirrors was over and the people were leaving and Brother knelt down in front of him/me and he was smiling, the way he did when he told war stories, when he/I finally did something right after trying and trying and trying._

_“I’m so proud of you, Lutz.”_

The rush jolted Nia out of her father’s memory, the sudden disorientation of being conscious that she _wasn’t_ the young Nation the memory belonged to, the person she’d been experiencing it as, startling her enough that it took a few seconds to even register the _power_ she felt now.

It was a weight in her ribs, a new core of iron that made her heavier in her bones, that anchored her to the ground and gravity more intensely than before-

Nia was so much more _aware_ of everything; of her own physicality, of the power in her muscles and the speed and flexibility she had and the pumping of her heart and inflating of her lungs; of the air currents around her, bringing the faint dry scents of dust and wood and betraying every movement with every shift in flow; of the ambient temperature, now a touch too warm; of the little sounds of the hounds breathing and their toenails on the floor, of the horses shifting and the slide of cloth and leather against skin and horsehide; of the lines of ink in the seal and the minisculely different shades of color in _everything;_ of the texture of the parchment under her hand and the wood grain beneath that and the hand on her shoulder-

She shoved that last away, violently, breathing deeply through her nose, eyes wide at the new sensations.

Everything _settled,_ after a moment, in the silence- the new awareness wasn’t lessened any, wasn’t any less intense; but it seemed more normal now, more like the way it always had been.

The center of the seal was empty, now.

“Amphitrite _did_ say the demon told her it wanted the powers of the Kings, didn’t she.”

“Yes, Jagdsprinz,” Zorya replied. “She did.”

The parchment was folded up, quickly, into an almost-square small enough to fit into Arion’s saddlebags. They would not be leaving it behind; or let it go unattended a moment longer.

This was where the demon Mephistopheles had stowed the memories rent away from the Germanies, over the centuries of their destruction.

The new Jagdsprinz turned, parchment in hand, and saw another person for the first time. It didn’t even take something as long as a glance to see Ly Erg’s history, all the lies he’d ever told and the thousand million different little ways he, like everyone, had breached a promise or an obligation or told a falsehood in the name of maintaining good social relations; and the bigger things, as well, the duties he’d neglected and the ones he was currently beholden too and the one’s he’d fulfilled; and the names of the people he’d killed, coupled with the manner of their death. It didn’t take even a second to see; and no time at all to process- the Jagdsprinz just _knew._

“I had been told that I would not come into my power until I had my Horned Helm as the last signifier of my office,” she said. Arion stood stock-still as she placed the seal parchment in his saddlebags and then drew her sword from its place on her saddle, the hilt resting solidly in her grip. “I was informed mistakenly.”

“We intended no deception, Jagdsprinz,” Ly Erg murmured, ducking his head in submission.

“I know,” the Jagdsprinz told him, and made a sharp, dismissive gesture with her free hand. “Move.”

He did, pulling his horse to the side to unimpede her view. There, where she could feel it now, the Jagdsprinz saw the Horned Helm- a faceplate, plain dull black metal, constructed in four pieces in three overlapping sections, forehead and nose to jaw and cheek to chin, to mimic a stag’s face. A set of antlers, the same pale yellow-white as the wood of the Tree of Golden Apples, was fused to the metal, completing the array.

It lay on the floor, near the join of the wall to the ground, in a space that had been empty before the power it linked to had been properly bestowed.   

The Jagdsprinz took a step, a single step, towards it- and _finally,_ the demon Mephistopheles appeared.

* * *

Prussia _knew_ this was going to cause a scene but **_fuck that,_** the planet was on the line.

He burst into the viewing room, grabbing everyone’s attention immediately, and looked straight at England.

“Go get Veneziano,” he ordered.

“You can’t just-”

“ _1963,_ Arthur!” he snarled; and England went very still and very scared. “Cass has fucked us all over on an **_entirely_** _new_ level- now _go get **Feliciano!**_ ”

England disappeared.

“General Beilschmidt,” Sofie said, standing. _“What-”_

Prussia ignored her, attention shifting to Øystein.

“Ásdís is panicking down the hall,” he said. “Go snap her out of it and get prepared to _explain_ your-fucking-selves to _everyone._ ”

Øystein fled, looking relieved.

“What the hell are you doing _now,_ Prussia?” Dietrich demanded.

Prussia pointed between Austria and the German Lands, quickly.

“Explain to him what’s going on, Roderich!” he snapped as he grabbed Switzerland and dragged him out of his chair. Liechtenstein started for them immediately.

“Any suggestions for me?” Denmark asked as they passed him.

“Go get _America,_ or _Russia,_ or _China_ , or- somebody with more firepower than us!”

“So _everybody?”_ Denmark yelled back as Prussia exited the room; then left before he could turn and snarl at the other Nation for the insult and for _wasting time._

Switzerland yanked his arm out of Prussia’s grip when they got into the hallway.

“They didn’t invade _you_ when they came last time!” Prussia demanded. _“How-”_

“It’s the only magic I do!” Sebastian told him. “I spent _centuries_ putting it together- it’s a magical barrier, Prussia, around my country and around Liechtenstein! I made it as a last resort to keep an invading army out- it’s nothing I can just _throw together_ last minute!”

“But the _Swiss_ don’t remember-”

“The barrier stops _time!_ ” Sebastian barreled over him. “The entire country exists in, in a perfect frozen moment, Nations excluded, until it comes down! No one _else_ had any record of it _outside_ it once I took it down; and so my _people_ didn’t, either! Once I put it up I can keep it up indefinitely; but once I bring it down I die for _days_ and then can’t do _anything_ for _decades!_ It’s been almost a century since the first and _only_ time I put it up and I could maybe, _maybe_ raise it for this! But it wouldn’t help anyone else!” 

“You’re messing with _time?_ ” Feliciano cried, aghast.

England looked extremely uncomfortable to be around Switzerland.

“Remind me not to invade you,” he muttered.

“That’s the _point-_ ”

“Get down to mission control, Feli,” Prussia said. “Liesl and Sebastian’ll show you- I don’t know _what_ the Pict are playing at but maybe you can stall them again. England, call America, see if he can do anything.”

“And you?” England asked, taking out his phone.

“I’m going to call Zell,” Gilbert said grimly. “She needs to know that she’s going to need to answer a _lot_ of questions, _very_ fast.”

* * *

Liesl, Sebastian, and Feliciano got to Mission Control just as the Pict flagship _‘highjacked’ Enlightenment_ ’s communication system.

 _‘Hello, hello, this is Flagship Steadfast of the Pict, hailing spacecraft unidentified of Earth,’_ a pleasantly-voiced woman announced calmly, in perfect Italian. _‘Repeat, Pict Flagship Steadfast hailing Earth spacecraft unidentified-’_

Feliciano took a deep, shaky breath and started for the communications station. In the background, Cassiel was translating for the television cameras and the news reporters, who were currently existing in a state halfway between terror and awe.

“This is Earth, _Steadfast,_ ” he said, gesturing for the communications officer to put him through. “You’ve reached _Enlightenment_ ’s Mission Control and associated guests.”

 _‘A mission control, how **quaint,** ’_ the woman continued. _‘And for a ship with such **interesting** engines, even. _Enlightenment, _you say?’_

“ _Enlightenment,_ ” Feliciano confirmed. “What do you **_want,_** _Steadfast_?”

 _‘Well, **that’s** rude,’ _the woman said. _‘I remember you being much more polite, Italy Veneziano.’_

His hands clenched.

Well, the secret was out _anyway-_

“Do _excuse_ me for being impolite to the people I last saw _leaving_ my planet after they’d decided not to _annihilate_ it!”

 _‘Oh, but it was **such** a beneficial interaction!’ _she reminded him mildly. _‘Planning an invasion was a **terrible** decision, if I do say so myself.’_

“Was it _really._ ”

_‘Oh yes! It reminded us we were the last. It reminded us what we’d lost- we’re so much **poorer** now that we’ve destroyed all our neighbors. It’s only you and us, now- Pict and humanity. And, Italy Veneziano, and whoever else you’ve got down there with you- we’d **much** rather share the stars than leave ourselves alone in the universe.’_

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you,” Veneziano told her stiffly; and Sebastian pushed past him.

“And who are you to say this for your people?” he demanded.

 _‘And who are **you?** ’_ she countered archly.

“Sebastian Zwingli, _Confoederatio Helvetica_!”

_‘I don’t believe we’ve met-’_

“No, we _haven’t,_ ” he bit out, while various people in the room gestured frantically at both of them to _stop antagonizing the interstellar space conquers. “_ Now **_who are you?_** ”

 _‘We have never been much of one for names, the Pict,’_ she said wistfully. _‘We **are** the Pict. We are singular and many. But now- you may call me Serafina DiAngeli; and I am as much the representative of my people as you are of yours.’_

* * *

The only reason there wasn’t an immediate emergency meeting of the UN called was because every government on the planet was too busy simultaneously panicking and trying to keep their citizenry from self-destructing in terror and riots.

Zell Beilschmidt, under the direction of General Beilschmidt, wrote up for global release a report about the original encounter between humanity and the Pict.

The planet was told that the Pict had come to Earth in 1963.

The planet was told that the Pict had come planning and invasion.

The planet was told that the governments of the world had no involvement with the Pict, and hadn’t been covering anything up.

The planet was told that Nations had resisted so strongly against the Pict that they had packed up and left.

The planet was told that, given it was 1963 and the middle of the Cold War and various stages of decolonization and other events of massive turmoil; announcing all of humanity that they’d _just_ avoided being destroyed by an alien race was _definitely_ going to be, by the Nations’ judgment, what sent everything finally, irrevocably to complete and utter hell- so they never said a word.

These things were unequivocally truth only if you didn’t look too hard at the giant pack of lies that they were trying to conceal behind themselves.

The planet was left with the deliberate, erroneous impression that the Pict had never, in fact, set foot on the planet _en masse_ ; that the entire thing had been a shadow dealing conducted away from prying eyes, instead of a planetwide mindwipe when every human the Pict had managed to absorb was released.

Earth settled, uneasily.

Cassiel Navin temporarily disappeared from the public eye. Ásdís Geirsdottir deferred speaking about the incident, saying she’d engage in discussion about an extraplanetary power once the UN had decided what to do. The German Provisional Government found unexpected solidarity with the Austrian and Swiss governments as all three tried to shoulder the vague suspicion the rest of the world was casting their way.

Gilbert Beilschmidt, Miervaldis Galante, and Lovino Agresta stewed in frustration as the Pict Crisis shoved their plans for exposing Hanna Schumacher’s conspiracy rather farther down the list of immediate priorities than they felt it should be.

A lot of people questioned why the aliens spoke, of all things, _Italian._

The Italian government provided no comment.

When the Pict, through Serafina DiAngeli and Navin Industries, requested the opening of proper diplomatic relations in preparation for a future of technological, scientific, and cultural exchange; including full access to habitable and colonizable- but sadly-depopulated-by-past-Pict-conquests worlds- the United Nations _finally_ called an emergency session; on the last day of the year.

* * *

The Nations’ meeting room was packed, as was expected for an emergency session, especially one with such a topic to cover- but Spain was surprised, still, to see Dietrich. He was even more surprised to see that he and Romano and Zacharías were sitting together.

Romano- yes, good, he belonged here. Zacharías- it made sense, he supposed, Cuba couldn’t be in here and out in the assembly at the same time and who else would you delegate to but family. Dietrich- _Vereinigtenrepublik Germanenlanden_ wasn’t actually a country yet, and yes, all of humanity should be represented at this meeting; but wouldn’t Prussia have been a better choice?

It occurred to him as he ambled over to ask the question that Prussia was currently serving as the top officer of the VRG’s military and intelligence service, the same government who had just accidentally initiated first contact with an alien race who had already taken over the planet once; _and_ he was one of the few people on the planet who remembered that it had happened.

It was probably a good idea that he was busy at home and had sent Dietrich instead.

Liechtenstein passed him just before he reached the little group, and he noticed she was carrying a makeshift desk plaque, made out of a folded piece of paper, that had _‘Liechtenstein and Switzerland’_ written on it, the other Nation’s signature at the bottom.

“Sebastian’s not coming?” Spain asked, quite confused.

“He has another job to do,” Liechtenstein told him, sitting down and arranging the sign on the table in front of her. “I know everything he’d need to say.”

Liechtenstein’s deputation made Spain stop and wonder a moment. He scanned the room.

“Where’s Feli?” was the question he finally asked when he got to Romano’s seat.

Romano only looked at him briefly before going back to scowling at the far wall.

“It’s better that he’s not here.”

“But he was the one who convinced the Pict to put everything back last time,” Spain said, confused. “Shouldn’t we be putting him front and center?”

“It’s better,” Romano repeated. “That he’s not here.”

Antonio decided to let it drop. He knew how Lovino could get, and decided to pay attention to Dietrich instead. The young Nation looked rather… disgruntled.

“So how much work did Prussia have to do?” he asked, trying to be companionable.

“That’s not why I’m here,” Dietrich grumbled.

Antonio was going to say something in reply, once he figured out a response, but then it registered that Liechtenstein had sat down right on the other side of Zacharías, and that there was now a section- a sect, he couldn’t help thinking- of strangeness.

Romano without his brother. Liechtenstein for herself _and_ her brother. Zacharías for his father. Dietrich instead of Prussia.

“What do the four of you know,” he asked after a minute of looking silently between the group, analyzing. “That the rest of us don’t?”

He never got an answer because just then the door slammed shut, and the entire room turned to look.

Zell was striding up to the front of the room, focused on it like if she didn’t look anywhere else it might just all go away. Her head was up, defiantly, and she had an aloof air that didn’t suit her, especially in combination- it made her seem like she was marching to her execution. Pavel was doing something with the presentation computer setup at the back of the room, and Miervaldis was locking the doors to the hallway and the assembly chamber.

“Sit down,” Zell ordered the room, and Spain was momentarily surprised by the way her voice projected, not expecting her to be wearing a presenter’s lapel microphone.

“ _You’re_ chairing?” someone called.

“No,” she said as a rectangle of light started to fade into view against the wall behind her. “I’m certain you all came expecting a meeting about the Pict, but that’s not what we need to discuss today.”

“Uh, I’m pretty sure that’s _exactly_ what we need to discuss today?” America said; and Antonio grabbed the chair next to Liesl before anyone else could.

“We _will_ eventually get to the Pict,” Zell promised. “But first- we need to talk about what happened to Germany.”

Russia made a little noise of pre-apology.

“I do not wish to be dismissive of that loss,” he said. “But is not that, in fact, not _our_ problem?”

“It _is_ your problem,” Zell said grimly. “And the things involved in it might just be our best hope. Pavel.”

The lights dimmed down.

“I don’t know how much everyone in this room knows,” she opened her talk with. “Because I know how much you all _hate_ talking about things that aren’t work. But that needs to _stop; **now.**_ Just because it’s _hard,_ because you haven’t _done_ it before, because you’re worried that someone will use it against you-”

They could see her eyes sweep around the room to look at all of them, in the light from the projector. It was showing a title slide that read _‘The Demise of Germany’_.

“The world has changed,” she said, and it had an uncomfortable finality to it. “And the mess of problems I’m going to explain to you all today? Could have been broken before we got to the point where I have to air a significant portion of _my **family’s**_ dirty laundry if people had actually _talked_ to each other.”

Zell produced a clicker from somewhere- a pocket, probably, though Spain had missed the movement. She pressed the button and the slide changed.

“There are various parts to this story,” she said. “The first begins not very long before the start of the Thirty Year’s War.”

The new slide, Spain noted, was a woodcut cover for _Doctor Faustus_.

“In the late 1500s, the demon Mephistopheles was summoned somewhere in German-speaking Europe. It was never banished; and, searching for power, latched onto _Nations_ as the greatest source on the planet. It started to try to take power from the Holy Roman Empire- Heinrich Adler. Somehow, from here, the demon found its way to Honalee and the Wild Hunt.”

The slide changed to Peter Nicolai Arbo’s _Åsgårdsreien_.

“It ambushed the Wild Hunt and killed the then-Lord of the Hunt, Jagdsprinz Erlkönig Gwyn ap Llud, causing the Hunt to dissolve. From this base in the Jägerskov, it continued to work on stealing away the Holy Roman Empire until, ultimately, he… died, as Nations are not supposed to, and his memories were completely gone. This process repeated for the Confederation of the Rhine, and the German Confederation- and then was born the German Empire. Ludwig Beilschmidt.”

Spain had kind of expected the next slide to be of Germany, but it wasn’t. It was the House.

“Additionally, the demon captured a series of humans into a mansion in Fôret Fama, not far from Switzerland’s property on the outskirts of Martigny, and killed them. I have been _informed-_ ”

She paused heavily, and looked significantly in Romania’s direction.

“-that there’s a certain magical power to be gathered from death. Presumably, with this knowledge, the demon contrived a plan to successfully entrap a Nation’s soul for its own use. Soon after World War Two, the demon lured a group of Nations and trapped them there. Germany was one, and we don’t know if it was trying to target him or not, given that it was _his_ soul the demon had been trying to get for so long- but, ultimately, it convinced Italy Veneziano to trade his soul for a series of chances to free the other Nations in the mansion from a cycle of murder and resetting time.”

 _That_ was why Feliciano wasn’t here.

“We all know this eventually worked,” Zell said. “The working presumption is that, after this failed, the demon instigated the de-Nationing of 2012 in hopes that it could gather more souls, now that they were not bound into resurrection; and then when _that_ was failed or abandoned, tried another go-round at the mansion about this time four years ago, and then again for Germany’s soul. All failures.”

The next slide was the famous painting of the Venetian _Sponsalia del Mare,_ and Spain couldn’t figure out why that applied.

“What _no one_ knew, until I and my siblings went seeking answers about the suspicious circumstances surrounding the… _destruction_ of the successive German states, was that Nation’s souls are _fundamentally incapable_ of being bought or sold. They-”

She stopped.

“You-”

She had to try again, staring hard at the far wall.

“Nations have place in any human religious system; not after death,” she told them, and Spain didn’t want to hear this. “Nations go to Irkalla when they finally die, gathered under the watch of Ereshkigal, with a certain freedom to come and go.”

 There was a sharp explosion of noise in the room.

“There’s no point in arguing it!” Zell yelled over them. “It’s _true;_ however much you don’t want it to be! I _met_ the Roman Empire in Irkalla, and Brandenburg herself confirmed what Ereshkigal told us! _You will all end up in Irkalla._ ”

It took Romano standing up and screaming at the room to get them all to quiet down again, swallowing their distress and forcing themselves to listen to the rest of what Zell had to say.

“The second part of this story,” Zell continued, more quietly than before. “Is all about Venice.”

…maybe there was more reason for Feliciano not to have attended; but Spain didn’t particularly want to learn what that could be.

“There are a lot of things in this story that are about Venice,” Zell said. “And very few of them are good. I know at least some of you know about the yearly _‘Wedding to the Sea’_. It’s a civic tradition, supposedly left over from the days of Venetian naval power on the Mediterranean. The _real_ story is that it’s a vestige of the days when Veneziano, when _Feliciano Costa,_ was in _active, personal_ union with Queen Amphitrite Kataiis of Póli Thálassas. He abandoned the marriage soon after Lepanto, unfortunately just before the appearance of the demon in Honalee- otherwise there was _much_ that could have been avoided. But the most _egregious_ violation of, of- _anything_ in this portion of the story, is that Veneziano broke off _personal_ contact with Amphitrite Kataiis, but he never stopped _actually being **married**_ to her.”

If there were gasps or noises of shock, Antonio missed them, because he still couldn’t believe this, no matter _what_ had been said at Christmas _\- not **Feli.**_

“Feliciano Costa married my father under false pretenses,” Zell told them, voice tight and slightly watery. “It was _adulterous_ and _illegitimate_ from beginning to end; but Feliciano was the only one who knew.”

He heard Dietrich shift uncomfortably in his seat. Next to him, Lovino was sitting stiffly in his chair. Antonio reached over under the table and squeezed his knee in support.

“Now things start to come together,” Zell continued. “And I have more news for you- if you have a child, a _biological_ child, not an adopted one… they are not entirely human.”

“I _object-_ ”

“It’s not a matter of personal opinion, America!” she snapped. “ _They are not entirely human!_ For the ones who have _two_ Nation parents- not human at _all!_ Cassiel Navin can do magic. His technology is science hiding a core of magical engineering. Øystein Brynjarsson helps him with that. So does Tomoko Honda. Nico Agresta-”

There was yet another pause as the next difficult subject was tackled.

“Nico was _shot_ and _killed_ by the Camorra in early November,” Lovino said, picking up for her. “He pulled himself back to life, _just like a Nation,_ and then withstood entire _pistol clips_ of ammunition sunk into him. He melted guns. He put so much heat and pressure on some of the _camorristi_ that they cooked from the inside out, where they didn’t _rot alive_ first. The Camorra boss had his skin and flesh stripped off. If they’ve got two biological Nation parents, they’re _not fucking human._ ”

“Eglantine Walker,” Zell said, taking the presentation back. “England’s granddaughter, some of you have met her- is a special case. Due to the lack of a Jagdsprinz, because of the demon, she was kidnapped and taken to the Tylwyth Teg. This, and the demon that year, were how the rest of us learned about magic and Honalee. _Those_ events are what led me to challenge Cassiel Navin to find out what happened to my father, why I and my siblings were in Honalee in the _first_ place and able to find so much of this information, and… and partially why Nia is still there.”

“Are you going to explain that now?” Romania called. “I’ve been waiting for a straight answer-”

“To pay off the debt that we incurred by asking for information and to give restitution to Amphitrite Kataiis for the way Veneziano treated her, Nia has been drafted into being the next Jagdsprinz and killing the demon Mephistopheles,” Zell told him, voice shaking slightly. “That concludes the first portion of this presentation.”

No one had a reply to that last piece of information that wouldn’t seem completely useless.

“Ahem,” France spoke up awkwardly. “I believe we were promised that the Pict would factor into this…?”

Zell looked over at Liechtenstein, who stood to get everyone’s attention.

“When the Pict came before, my brother and I spared our people through magic,” she said, and there was a flurry of whispering. “It’s not anything you can do large-scale anytime soon- Sebastian had been building the spell up since the founding of Switzerland- but it _worked._ ”

“Okay and this is important _how?_ ” America demanded.

“ _Think_ about it for a minute,” England said from somewhere in the room. “We don’t have any space defenses- and now is _not_ the time for jokes, young man, so don’t you even _start_ \- and letting them land to try to annihilate them _here_ is _clearly_ not an option. We all remember what happened _last_ time. But with magic-”

“Which only _we_ can use!” China exclaimed. “ _How_ could that be feasi-”

“We’ve had more interaction with the Kings of Honalee in the last four years than in the last _four hundred_ ,” Romano interrupted. “We can go to _them_.”

“So our options are be ground under the Pict or tangle ourselves up in debts and deals with the Kings for the rest of our existence?” Hungary asked. “No, thanks. I’d rather fight.”

“We _can’t_ fight!” Romano said. “That’s the damn _point!_ We could maybe, _maybe_ outlast Honalee in a fight- but do you want to fucking _try?_ When Amphitrite Kataiis can turn the seas on us and Kaschei Perun the air and skies? You want to send your people to fight the Tylwyth Teg and their illusions? Or against the Dvergar and the secrets they keep under the mountains? You want a damn _fight,_ go get on one of those warhorses you still breed and go help Nia!”

“Maybe I _will!_ ”

Antonio was about to try to calm them both down when Ukraine spoke.

“You know,” she said, thoughtfully. “That’s not such a bad idea.”

 _“What?”_   Romano exclaimed, taken aback.

“Well, we want the demon dead too,” she pointed out. “And we _have_ been neglecting Honalee. If we helped finally kill it, that would go a long way to fostering goodwill, don’t you think? We’ve been fighting at _least_ as long as some of them have, and we have more magic than anyone but the Kings. It’s a _different_ sort of magic- but against a demon? How many times have we used the fact that we _will_ come back when killed, or can keep going when we _should_ be dead, to our advantage with humans? And we don’t have to worry about it taking our souls, so- _why not?_ ”

“If you’re going, I’m going,” Turkey said. “The Hunt’s a cavalry army, right? _Most_ of us have fought as cavalry at one point or another; and I know _exactly_ how many of you have kept your skills up, since Katyusha and I are with you every time Erzsébet trains her drestiers. That’s at _least_ an extra squad.”

“Besides,” Ukraine added. “It’s been _much_ too long since I went to Kaschei Perun. And- Zell?”

“Yes?”

“Nia is upset with just her father?”

 “Yes.”

“So then why would we _not_ go to the aid of a Jagdsprinz who is well-inclined to us?” Yekateryna asked the group. “If we help her fight so she doesn’t die, then we’ll have the person in charge of Honalee’s deals and treaties _on our side._ ”

“I don’t think the Jagdsprinz is _allowed_ to be on anyone’s _‘side’_ ,” Romania said. “Not like _that,_ anyway.”

“But it’s worth doing,” Yekateryna said stubbornly. “And I’m going to do it. The rest of you can come or not as you please. But unless someone is hiding a ready-to-go space defense program, our best option is to pull Honalee into this and use magic against science. So- anyone? America? China? India? Japan? Vanya; are _you_ hiding a space defense program?”

“Of course not, Katyusha,” he told her. “But, so this means we are telling our governments that there is _magic,_ now?”

“I have told mine already,” Cristoforo said. “They are taking it… without panic.”

“Well,” Russia said. “You are a _special_ case, Vatican.”

Ukraine spread her arms.

“So we ride for Honalee, then.”

Spain leaned over to Romano.

“We’re going to _owe_ them for this, aren’t we?” he muttered in his husband’s ear.

“I-” Zell was trying to speak. “I can’t- _thank you,_ those of you who go. But please, organize it _after_ the meeting.”

“You said you’d finished the first portion of the presentation,” Canada spoke up. “What’s the second?”

“The second portion is completely Earth politics,” Miervaldis answered, stepping up for Zell. “And you’re going to like it even less than first portion.”

“Oh God,” someone muttered.

“I’m going to keep this simple,” Miervaldis continued. “Because it’s terrifying and I’d prefer not to talk about it for too long and there are issues of political stability to get to. You’re all being stalked.”

There was silence in the room.

“Well don’t all get upset about it at once.”

“By _who?_ ” Bulgaria asked. “Who cares about _us?_ ”

“Conspiracy theorists!” he told them all, and his tone got very pointed. “Who _unfortunately_ are not as wrong as I _hoped_ they were; because it turns out you’re keeping a _lot_ of collective secrets!”

He pressed the clicker Zell had previously been using and the presentation started cycling through individual slides on a timer. The room fell into oppressive silence as various portions of their lives appeared before their eyes.

“That’s _János!_ ” Austria exclaimed in fury as a picture of his went by.

“As I was saying,” Miervaldis said. “You’re all being stalked. Now, this would be a major problem in and of itself- _but._ There are three incredibly unfortunate complications. _One-_ ”

The slideshow of personal lives ended and a picture of a woman appeared.

“This is the person who is in charge of the forum where the conspiracy theorists gather. She is their ringleader. She has had at least ten people we know of assassinated by the Camorra in exchange for the personal information that let them attack Nicodemo and Giuditta and Nikephoros last month. China- you remember Rhee Eun, the one who planted a bomb with your grandson and blew up your house? That was her information as well.”

“ _She’s_ the reason-!”

“She’s also Keld Schumacher’s sister,” Miervaldis interrupted him. “I _know_ you all know Mr. Schumacher.”

“But he’s _told_ me about his sister,” Lithuania said. “He said she was a recluse with strange hobbies- not an accomplice to _terrorists._ ”

“That’s what he thought,” Miervaldis said. “What I can say is that he’s the reason we were able to connect her to-”

He pointed the clicker over his shoulder. An aerial photograph of Berlin, just after the Fire, appeared.

_“-that.”_

So _that’s_ why there was a second portion to the presentation about Germany.

“To summarize: they had a copy of the group picture of the Axis powers, Cuba made himself President, they all panicked and went _‘fuck, **Nazis** ’, _some _actual_ Nazis saw a chance and took it, the entire thing cascaded from there, and now we’ve got Dietrich and not Ludwig. There’s a much fuller and comprehensive report General Beilschmidt and I have put together, you’ll have it later today.”  

“Wait, wait- a moment,” France said. “They toppled an entire _country?_ ”

“Well, _two,_ technically- they were less _directly_ involvedwith the Korea situation, but-”

“An _entire **country?**_ ”

“Yes, Germany no longer exists because a combination of infernal malice and misinformed conspiracy theorists. How _fragile_ you all really are.”

 _“Miervaldis,”_ Latvia warned his son.

“It’s true, _Tēvs_ ,” he told his father, momentarily losing the frustration-generated sarcasm he’d had so far. “I wish it wasn’t; but it is.”

“So there’s like, a plan to deal with this, right?” Poland asked.

“There’s a list of countries with people involved with the Fire and trading personal information in the report,” Miervaldis said. “And yes, there’s a plan being formulated to deal with it. General Beilschmidt will have it finished for discussion by the international community within the next week. We-”

He stopped, abruptly, and stared at Poland long enough for it to become uncomfortable.

“…Yes?” Poland prompted hesitantly.

 “I- your daughter,” Miervaldis told him. “She passed on the bulk of the information about us- about Nation’s children. She _knew_ what they’d done with the information they had, with the Fire, and she gave Hanna Schumacher the information she sold to the Camorra about Nicodemo anyway.”

Spain went very, very tense and told himself firmly that it was _not_ Poland’s fault that his _estranged_ daughter was responsible for the Camorra finding his children. He clamped a hand down on Romano, too, just in case.

“General Beilschmidt didn’t want to tell you until he absolutely had to,” Miervaldis continued. “But this is a… convenient place to mention it.”

“I-” was what Feliks managed before he buried his face in his hands. Then, quietly: _“Damn.”_

Miervaldis waited a moment before proceeding with the presentation.

“Their culpability in the Fire was the second complication,” he said. “The third one is where some political solidarity is required.”

The picture of the Fire-ravaged city was replaced with another portrait, this one of a man.

“This is Xavier Kraus,” Miervaldis said. “He was one of the primary members of the conspiracy theorists involved with the plans that destroyed Germany. _He’s_ the one who planted the bombs in the Reichstag, where he worked.”

“And,” Australia said with quite a bit of trepidation. “It gets worse _because…_?”

“He was a founding member of _Germanen für Landesstolz_ ,” Dietrich answered for him.

There was a noise from Austria, and Zell sent him a searing glare from across the table.

 “We have enough evidence to show that the other founders weren’t involved in this in any way, or ever aware of it,” Dietrich said, and Spain realized why the German Lands was here in the first place. “But it even with that proof, it still looks very, very bad.”

He’d come to _beg_ for _help._

Antonio winced at the memories of when _he’d_ had to do the same, to other Nations. It was never anything but bitter and hard to swallow.

“I _need,_ ” Dietrich told them, and oh, he’d said _‘I’_. _That_ had to hurt. It was always easier to ask on behalf of your people, to ask as a _‘we’_ \- not as a Nation. Weakness in a Nation meant death, so often. “International support for the fact that my government had no involvement in this, when it announces the findings. It- everything could fall apart, otherwise. _Germanen für Landesstolz_ is the _heart_ of my government.”

“And _why,_ ” Austria called. “Would we do-”

“Switzerland and I are,” Liechtenstein interrupted, silencing him.

 “As is Cuba,” Zacharías said, speaking for the first time all meeting.

“Does Armas know about this?” Finland asked.

“General Beilschmidt informed the German Provisional Government and I about this earlier this month,” Dietrich told him. “Before Christmas.”

Finland let out a soft _‘oh’_ of comprehension, correctly identifying this as the political thing his son hadn’t been able to reveal to him _._

“He wouldn’ stay in a government th’ did _that_ ,” Sweden said decisively. “‘ll c’nvince mine.”

“And me,” Finland added.

“Well if you both and _Liechtenstein…_ ” Denmark said. “Yeah; I’m with them.”

“I don’t always like Gilbert,” Poland said. “But he would have torn it all apart _himself_ if the GfL had had anything to do with it. I’ll get my people to stand with you.”

“Seconded,” France and Hungary said, nearly but not quite in unison.

Spain raised his hand.

“Third.”

“Fourth,” Russia called after a few seconds.

There was a ripple of sound around the room as people started whispering amongst themselves.

 _“Fifth!”_ America threw in, not to be outdone.

Canada sighed and China huffed, but-

“Sixth.”

“Seventh.”

“Eighth.”

“Ninth.”

“Tenth.”

“Eleventh!”

Affirmatives came faster, now that the five biggest countries had sided with _Vereinigtenrepublik Germanenlanden_.

“Twelfth!”

“Thirteen!”

“Fourteen!”

“You’re being outvoted, Roderich!” Lovino called, and Antonio kind of wished he’d thought to try to keep him quiet. “You’re in too deep; you can’t back out now! You’re codependent on what the Switzerland and the Provisional Government are doing and- hell! Dietrich’s _outstripped_ y _-_ ”

A chair screeched across the floor as Austria stood and slammed his hands down on the table.

_“Fif **teen.** ”_


	29. 2052: January

It was dark and there was the sound of the sea.

“I know you remember,” he whispered into the silence. “I know you remember the sky and the Kings. I know you remember the mountains and the plains and forests; the seas and shores and moors. I know you remember.

Wake up.

Can’t you feel me? Can’t you feel what I can promise you? Remember the children. The happy children, the sad children- the laughter and the play and tears and the soft sweet sleeps. The children adventurous and the children shy, the children who read and the children who ran. Can’t you feel them? Can’t you feel the children?

Wake up.

Remember the promise; the promise of golden years and treasured memories and the joy of imagining. Remember the freedom and the joy. The children who have innocence and the children who need theirs rescued. I know you remember the pain. But remember the melting of fear into awe and the power that partnership brings. Remember the children and _wake up._ Can’t you hear me? If you don’t wake, there will be no more children. Can’t you _hear_ me? Don’t you _feel_ me?

 ** _Wake up!_** ”

* * *

_9 January 2053_  
 _Northern Ostrobothnia, Finland  
_ _4:03 AM EET (3:03 AM CET)_

People had trickled into the campsite as they could. They had taken as little time as they could handling diplomatic and government business, quietly passing things off where appropriate and judiciously avoiding getting assigned more work so they could steal away.

Hungary and Mongolia had arrived first, just after New Year’s; Erzsébet coaxing along the best-trained drestiers from her herd and Altanbaatar on his own horse. They’d happily set up camp, picketing the horses, setting up a firepit, and, just because they could, digging a latrine. For the first two days they had the camp to themselves, and practiced drilling the horses, mostly racing and the dressage that formed the basis of in-battle maneuvers. Altanbaatar hunted for their food himself and they cooked it over the fire, the two of them enjoying the short time they had to return to some of the first practices of their peoples, centuries ago.

Poland and Lithuania came on the third or fourth, Latvia trailing a few hours behind. Feliks and Toris shared a tent, used to the situation from campaigns during their Commonwealth, and Raivis set up next to them. When the three of them showed up for the horses the next day, Altanbaatar clucked disapprovingly at the strange mix of plate and modern body armor.

“It’ll work,” Lithuania insisted. “Just be grateful that Feliks’ Winged Hussar suit is too fragile to take out.”

That day Erzsébet was able to change the destriers’ workout to include the more traditional fighting techniques of a knight on horseback.

Turkey, Georgia, Iran, and Israel arrived as a block the next day. Sadık and Forouzandeh, Erzsébet had been expecting- Sadık had already declared his intention to come, and Forouzandeh was eldest of all the Nations, and the closest thing there was to Ereshkigal’s counterpart. The others, though-

“It’s a _demon_ ,” Rahel snapped at her when she asked. “I _won’t_ let it go free!”

Georgia just raised an eyebrow at her.

“Don’t even _try_ to claim that you’re not in this to relive your glory days,” he said. “Just a little. That’s what _I’m_ doing. Besides this being a good idea, and all.”

Sadık had interrupted before she and Imeda had the chance to get into an argument.

“Kateryna will be here tomorrow,” he told her. “It’s going to take a while for Ivan to extract himself, though.”

As promised, Ukraine arrived the next morning, comfortable and happy in her old Cossack wear and her long curved sword, a modern rifle slung across her back. Romania was accompanying her, sporting his conventional array of monster-hunting gear.

“Can you even _ride_ in all that?”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job.”

 Ukraine, like Turkey, brought news.

“Ivan will be another day or two,” she told everyone else. “He’s putting off leaving until Yao can. Kusiqhispi’s gone already; and Arthur told me Tristan’s gone as well. Crossed over at midnight, New Year’s, he said.”

“Kusiqhispi?” Israel had to ask.

“Elpida is the name Spain gave her,” Kateryna reminded Rahel gently. “Don’t you remember the screaming row they had about it, two or three years ago? She wants the name _her_ people gave her. Her first people.”

“I didn’t _forget._ I just never caught the name in the middle of all the insults.”

“What’s _Peru_ doing in Honalee?” Latvia wanted to know. “Wales, okay, I guess that makes sense-”

“Chicomoztoc, I would assume,” Iran answered. “Just as Yao will go to Kūnlún.”

“If we had time, I’d be going to Möngkedai Khan,” Altanbaatar said. “But…”

He shrugged as he trailed off.

“No time.”

“We’re to meet up with Yao and Kusiqhispi in Lintukoto,” Ukraine continued. “And Wales will be at Nysa.”

They had two more days until Russia arrived, riding out of the early night tall and menacing on a great black horse that definitely wasn’t anything Erzsébet had bred. Even for a destrier, it was huge.

“You are not the only one who has kept their breeding line alive, Hungary,” he said with a hint of amusement when he caught her scowling at the horse. “Simply the most prominent. Yao left for Kūnlún, yesterday afternoon. Timo will be here later.”

The camp started to pack up at that, breaking down tents and securing weapons and tack. The tents were very quickly dropped off back at their owner’s houses, Nations gone and back again before anyone could notice their passage and force them to stay. Hungary and Mongolia left the fire going and added more wood to it, rightfully predicting that Finland would likely need it.

Finland turned up some time after the truly dark night had fallen. He thanked them for keeping the fire, and opened the bag he’d brought with him to carefully take out his shamanic hand drum- the one he kept locked away, most of the time, even from Sweden.

Perhaps- _especially_ from Sweden. History was history, but forgiveness didn’t mean forgetting; and there were some things that were easier to forgive if you kept them quiet.

Each way of getting to Honalee was different, and no one was certain what to expect from getting to Lintukoto. There was some minor grumbling when Timo told them they’d have a wait- midnight on New Year’s would have been easier, but that was eight days gone, so it would have to be dawn tomorrow.

So they had hours of drumming, accompanied by Timo’s repetitive chanting and singing in Finnish archaic enough that he was the only one who understood it, watching the fire and eventually slipping into a blankness of mind in the silence they held to let Finland concentrate.

It was approaching pre-morning when the fire started dying, Timo’s volume lowering with it. As the fire shrank, the ambient light started to grow; until, as the last flame gave out to leave only embers, the first sliver of the rising sun became visible on the horizon, the end the valley between two of Lintukoto’s hills.

“Huh,” Georgia said, twisting back and forth in his saddle to take in the scenery. The birds, either unnoticed before or only now existing the same plane of existence as them, were chirping and singing happily.

Many of the Nations loosened collars and undid coats. They had put away the clothing they’d been wearing for central Finland in January before mounting up, knowing the weather wouldn’t match, but Lintukoto was still a little warm when you were in varying levels of armor.

“Took a while,” Mongolia remarked thoughtfully about the method of the trip. “But there’s something to say for it lacking any blood or death.”

Finland put away his drum and mounted up on the horse Hungary had been holding for him. They formed loose ranks, two lines of six headed by Finland and Mongolia, Iran riding in front, as the most senior. Poland was the last to take a place in the lines, rooting around in his pack to pull out a folded cloth, and undid the stave he’d secured crosswise just behind his saddle. Everyone had assumed it to be a quarterstaff.

It was a pole, they realized, as he shook the cloth out to reveal the flag he’d hidden- dyed in the richer, darker colors of natural pigments, rather than industrial chemicals. The field was true ultramarine blue, with the crossed circle representing Earth done in red ochre, the quarters filled in with yellow ochre. Feliks secured it to the flagstaff and rested the butt of the pole in the flag-cup built into his saddle, leaning back slightly in his seat to counterbalance the weight.

Lintukoto’s ever-present breeze caught the fabric and ruffled it out, gently.

“It has been a long a time since even _I_ have seen that,” Iran said after a few moments of quiet. “Long before any of you. Where did you learn it, Feliks?”

He shrugged.

“It was just, like, I started thinking about it and I totally just _knew?_ ” he said. “They’re the most basic colors and some of the oldest pigments known to humankind. There’s like, _cave paintings_ and stuff in ochre and ultramarine. And it’s the astronomical symbol of Earth? But it also totally looks like it could have been a sun wheel, or a symbol of the axis mundi, or even like, just- this is our spot. Our lands and our people and our world.”

He shrugged again, the gesture more helpless, this time.

“Nobody told me. I just _knew_.”

Iran took another long look at the flag before nodding to herself, expression cryptic; then turned in her seat and started to lead the Nations to the mountains, and battle.

* * *

_9 January 2053_  
 _The Berlin House, Berlin  
_ _9:00 AM CET_

The Bunker had been a flurry of activity for so long now that even the keyed down energy of this moment- the quiet, bated breath of the room as people paused, watching- where even the few agents and officers who still had work to do were keeping an eye on the display screen in front of the room, made it seem like the entire place had been abandoned.

General Beilschmidt was standing up near the front, behind the front bank of desks, the one facing the center of the server-and-computer array that lined this end of the Bunker. He had his hands clasped behind his back in a military parade rest, focused on the screen. When people weren’t look at the display, they were looking at his back.

In a chair next to him sat a boy- well, not quite a boy. He looked like an older teenager, lanky, like perhaps he still had growing to do. His white jacket, double-breasted with gold buttons and gray accents, was maybe just a little too short, though his pants fit fine, and his watery indigo scarf was knotted around his neck like he knew something about fashion. The agents and officers had gotten used to his presence and the gold-white flash of the German eagle pin he wore on his lapel. He had a habit of appearing and disappearing suddenly, but it was tolerated, because of the General.

The General called him _‘Don’_. The few times anyone had seen him sign something, he’d printed, very neatly and exactly, in block capitals: _‘VON MASKINSJÄLEN’_.

(His voice was the voice in the earpieces, and they could hear him even when he was standing there in the room, silently, but no one talked about that.)

If anyone had been standing in front of the General, they would have seen the way his eyes flicked down towards Don, who gave a slight nod.

The General raised his hand, fingers straight; and with a simple crook of his wrist forwards, said:

“Go.”

The display screen lit up suddenly as the main page of Hanna Schumacher’s forum appeared, plain black text on a tastefully-arranged organizational color scheme. The text seemed to _collapse_ , then, the black bleeding out across the page to obscure it completely. Ladonia’s green dragon, passant over a golden apple and holding a heart in its upraised hand, breathing fire, faded in; followed a seconds later by _‘Suum Cuique’_ in silver script beneath it.

The General turned to Don.

“You’ve got this?” he asked.

The teenager nodded.

“Everything’s coordinating well,” Don told him. “There shouldn’t be any hitches; and if there are, I should be able to handle it. Now go deal with the Pict.”

* * *

_9 January 2053_  
 _Rotterdam, the Netherlands  
_ _10:02 AM CET_

When the _Dienst Nationale Recherche_ came for Hanna Schumacher, she had her current freelance coding project up on one screen and her Forum on the other, trying to open the website code to fix whatever had gone “wrong”.

It took them until dinner to document and pack up all the evidence- she’d printed out _everything,_ a safeguard against hackers and telecommunications companies, every e-mail and every scrap and shred of evidence to support her theories, not including the conspiracy wall she kept in her work room.

There was enough evidence within a five-foot radius of where they arrested her to convict her on treason charges in the Netherlands, and espionage in several others. In her entire residence, there was enough to convict a full thirty people- and that was just the ones who were Forum members.

* * *

Ly Erg had seen the demon before. Once, only- when it had appeared without warning behind his father at this very table and torn him in two within seconds before reaching for the next person at the table, Lanzo ap Bébinn, his father’s second-in-command despite being the youngest of the Hunt’s Knights, the son of one of the Tylwyth-Huldrene matches that had happened since the Erlkönig had formed a bridge between the Jägerskov and the Silent Hills.

He hadn’t been one of his father’s Knights, though only because his higher duty, his position as Prince of the Tylwyth Teg, precluded it, in his mind. The Knights were first in defense and attack, who rode at the front of the Hunt and served as the Jagdsprinz’s advisors in his role as _‘King of the Jägerskov’_.

They had been short three Knights at the table that day- Hiruz, who had patrol duty and was traveling the forest to ensure everything was secure; and Zorya and Boreas, who had gone with Zvezda, who would have been a Knight but for her own position as heir to her father’s throne, to mourn the death of Arianrhod. After the meeting was over, Ly and his father were supposed to have joined them.

Ly wondered for a long time, afterwards, if having those three Knights would have made a difference.

At that meeting, he had been the one serving the food and drink, and three were three things that saved him from the demon.

One: that he was standing on the opposite side of it as the demon.

Two: that the demon made the mistake of going after the Knights nearest to it first, taking out the other four Tylwyth and Huldrene Knights- Eraint ap Enaid and Drest ap Aneirin, Haraethel and Lanberaht- before paying attention to the others, leaving the Dvergr and Thálassian Knights a moment to react.

Three: either Cai or Eris ou Saphine, he would never know who, used their position as children of Amphitrite Kataiis’ Lady-of-Honor to summon Arion; who came screaming in just as the demon burned through Vahan’s magical protections and opened him neck to groin. Eris tangled the bloody, clawed hand in her spell net and held it in place, Cai sweeping in to swiftly build a magical wall that blocked the demon from brining it’s other arm to bear.

He could still picture Eris as pulled her saber down from the back of her chair and yelled at him to get on Arion and _go,_ go to get Hiruz and Zorya and Boreas, and the air was suddenly very dry as Eris got her sword free and she and her brother called the water in the air to join the water they were summoning up from the ground and they froze it, catching the majority of the net under the sudden ice and slaving the demon to the floor. Cai took the heat they’d displace and threw it at the demon as fire, and the demon merely spread its six wings for balance and then the air changed again, a different emptiness this time as all the magic in the area contracted towards it, and Ly was a Jager but _he couldn’t convince himself to move._

Bedisa, the remaining Dvergr Knight, broke him out of him when she pressed the Jagdsprinz’s sword into his hands.

 ** _“Go,”_** she’d commanded, and there was an undertone of power in her voice that convinced him the stories of the Dvergr and words and magic were true; and then her next words chilled him because of the truth it implied about the secrets everyone knew they kept. “ _Run._ We will not survive this, but you can. Warn the other Kings.”

And he’d gotten on Arion, fully tacked up for the planned trip to Kitezh that would now never happen, and the last thing he saw of the Knights of the Hunt before Arion somehow got him through the press of Jäger trying to get into the round hall to fight was the demon tearing through Cai’s wall as easily as it had Vahan’s protections and shredding the tall man, Eris screaming in fury at her brother’s death and lifting her saber to strike at the monster, which had taken on a brilliant, sinister white glow.

The heat and force of the- explosion, perhaps, the demon had created that wiped out the rest of the Hunt and broken the walls of the Jagdshall had sent Arion stumbling on the Hunt’s Road, but that was his only falter until they reached Nysa, where Arion collapsed in shock next to the pool at the bottom of the falls, and Ly Erg had rolled over on his back in the grass and stared blankly up into the clear blue sky, clutching the Jagdsprinz’s sword to his chest, until Hiruz appeared and ordered the merchants and the shoppers and travelers out, away, banishing them to anywhere but the Jägerskov, for their own protection. He goaded Arion into standing once more and Ly into getting back on him and sent them on down the Huntsroad, to return the sword to its smith, Seppo Ilmarinen, and to spread the word to the Kings and the remaining Knights- and Ly Erg had thought the last he’d see of the Jägerskov properly would be Hiruz standing at its head by the Tree, watching him leave for Lintukoto.

Against what many had been thinking since that day, though, he was back in the Jagdshall, and there was a new Jagdsprinz, the demon had just _appeared_ the way it had before, so long ago, and he knew _exactly_ how much they should fear it-

But the Jagdsprinz didn’t seem to know, or care.

She mounted Arion- turning her _back_ on the demon for a moment to do so, and he had a stomach-dropping moment when he was certain it would be her doom, that _this_ would be when the demon struck and the second Jagdsprinz died just as the first had- without concern or incident, and sat, self-assuredly at ease in the saddle, expression blank but with an unmistakable air of cold, iron-hard fury and deliberate, steel-sharp focus.

Ly Erg couldn’t call the demon _‘cautious’_ , because it had the same self-assurance and the same anger and focus as his Prince; but between them, in the space they faced each other over, there was a deliberate keeping-of-distance where they silently acknowledged that they didn’t want to get too close to each other, or the first to cross the line.

He also couldn’t say the demon smiled, because though there was a- a head, of sorts, there wasn’t a face, not really. But there was smiling with your mouth and then there was the _feeling_ that someone was smiling, and that’s what the demon had, that feeling.

It wasn’t a pleasant one. It was predatory, and it was sharp, and it was _hungry._

It’s wings- huge, feathered white things, the demon was at least twice as tall as any of them mounted and it shouldn’t have fit below the ceiling of the Jagdshall but in an eye-searing twist of space it _did-_ raised just ever so slightly, rustling-

And then there was pain and light, fire-like, hot and searing and overwhelming while being curiously also distant, and he wanted to _scream_ with the intensity of it and the strange scared hopelessness bearing down on him along with it.

For a moment, it felt real.

For a moment, for him, the illusion held.

But he was Tylwyth Teg, and beyond that _Prince_ of the Tylwyth Teg, one day to be King, and there were different ways that every people employed magic and what the Tylwyth Teg did was by and large _illusions,_ glamor, tricking the senses and tricking the mind into seeing what they wanted and feeling what they wanted, textures and images and scents and sounds and emotions.

Ly Erg knew what that strange distance to everything was. It was the hallmark of an illusion, and the fact that it had tricked him and that even now that he _knew_ it was an illusion and that he’d focused on that distance to remind himself of it, that he wasn’t seeing it as an overlay on top of reality and that he was still having moments of doubt he had to squash down meant it was powerful; the most powerful he’d ever come across.

He hadn’t expected anything less from the demon, in possession of the power stolen from the Knights of the Hunt.

Given time, he didn’t know how long, he could break this. But until he’d done that they wouldn’t know where the demon was and he could hear Zorya screaming, _she_ was convinced by the illusion, and the Jagdsprinz-

The Jagdsprinz hadn’t moved, but had gone mountain-still, tensed as she stared at a large blond man kneeling, half-collapsed, on the ground. He lifted his head and his blue eyes were haggard with pain to the edge of madness, and he opened his mouth to speak.

The Jagdsprinz’s voice was even, and icy with venom.

“If my father was in Hell, Mephistopheles, he would not look like _that,_ ” she said, and Ly had a moment before he realized that while perhaps she was experiencing the same illusion that he and Zorya were, he wasn’t sure if the Jagdsprinz’s ability to see lies extended to resisting glamors, the demon was still there behind it all, behind the image of the man; and you couldn’t hide what it was the Jagdsprinz’s duty to see behind any magic.

No Jagdsprinz would be fooled about the information in a soul.

And in that knowledge Ly Erg found a deep reassurance, and reached for the weave of the illusion to pull it apart; only for it tear and fall to pieces before he got at it.

The Jagdsprinz was holding her Helm now, the twist of the wrist dragging space along with it and calling it to the hand of its owner. She lifted it, pressing it to her face; and the magic of it surprised him, because the memories were old and so long unlooked-at.

It was and wasn’t a sort of glamor. The armor, steel plate and brigandine lacquered black and leather dyed to match; the fur cloak bunched in a thick mane-like ruff around the neck and spilling from the shoulders- that was real. The widening of the shoulders and the added weight to the figure the steel and cloak gave, that was real; because there was always strength in the Jagdsprinz and the armor was just there to prove it, to make a point.

 But the wide out-and-backwards sweep of the antlers on the Helm, the not insubstantial and not blurred but less _distinct_ outline of the body as where it seemed the melt into the somehow-darkened air in the shadow of the antlers, the way the not-shadow darkness spread out around the Jagdsprinz like a second, grander cloak- that was also real. It was real in this moment and despite the strange unreality of it all it more solidly _was_ than anything else around it; though it would seem a glamor in memory once the Helm was removed and the armor banished and the moment passed.

The power of the Jagdsprinz was a power rooted deep in the workings of magic, in the universe, and Ereshkigal had teased it out when Gwyn ap Llud had come to her and asked for a way to bend and change what had been immutable and unmovable Laws of how things were; and that’s how it was felt. It felt as though it rose from the depths of earth and sea and sky; from the marrow of the bones, the pit of the stomach, the second of contraction-release in the beat of the heart, the bottom-most filling of the lungs as breath was drawn.

The power rose and it was a fierce, primal thing, an intense immediacy unmatched in any rush of adrenaline or danger-focused narrowing of awareness. It was righteous fury with a predator’s instincts, blood-fever that gloried in the feeling of crunching bones and tearing flesh and the smell and the heat of a body torn open and reveled in the utter certainty that the prey would run, be caught, and would _die;_ that all would be satisfied in bloody, screaming, terrified death as the books were balanced and justice and revenge served.

You could do nothing, being allowed this power, but want to _hunt._

To him, and Zorya, and the Hounds, allowed this power but not yet to _use_ it, a second seemed eons, stretched out in tension and anticipation and want-that-was-need, and the _hunt; the **Hunt-**_

The Jagdsprinz drew her sword, stared the demon down, and told it: _“Run.”_

* * *

_9 January 2053_  
 _Palais des Nations, Geneva  
_ _11:15 AM CET_

The last-minute preparations for the arrival of the Pict delegation had just kicked up into a level of frantic previously unachieved as everyone realized just how _little_ time there was left. The decision to hold the meeting in Geneva instead of at Headquarters in New York City had been a good one- there were less people around to start riots or to get hurt if something went wrong, Geneva had a reputation for peace, and, though no one was saying it, it _was_ technically the Republic of the United German Lands that had made first contact, so, just in case this was all a ruse, holding it in Geneva would mean it happened to their people _first._

Feliciano couldn’t recall ever feeling so small and worthless in his entire life.

He was certain it had occurred. He just couldn’t remember the times when it was, because right now he was wedged into an unobtrusive spot in the main hallway and desperately hoping that nobody wanted or needed him for anything, because he’d started his day waking up from a memory-dream about the Pict invasion, the end of it, where he’d been the last thing Ludwig had seen and Ludwig had begged him to smile and he’d been so _sure_ he’d just seen Ludwig die but when Ludwig _actually_ died he hadn’t been there-

Feliciano had been in the same room but he hadn’t been _there._

And Ludwig was _gone_ and so was Nia and the rest of his family was still mad and everyone _else_ knew now and they were all avoiding him and all he’d been able to think for a while now was _my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault._

“I have been _saying_ this for the past week- he is _busy,_ Mr. President! No, I am _not_ at liberty to tell you _what_ he is busy with, but I can _assure_ you that it is a vital endeavor! And, _also_ as I have said before- you do not _employ_ me! I am not obligated to inform of you of anything nor do you have the power to compel me to! _Furthermore,_ I am acting _entirely_ within the boundaries of my position, and _I_ know even if you _don’t_ that I am _virtually irreplaceable-_ so **_no_** _. **Your complaints about my tone do not concern me.** _ Now, you have places to be, and none of them are where _I_ should be.”

Zell made straight for him to avoid speaking to the Chinese President any longer.

 _“Walk with me,”_ she demanded in an undertone, and Feliciano came along because he didn’t want her to have any more reasons to be angry with him.

As soon as they’d turned a corner and gotten out of the man’s sight, Feliciano tried to broach a question.

“So, did you actually need me for so-”

“No,” Zell cut him off, resolutely not making eye contact.

They nearly ran into Cristoforo turning the next corner.

“I was informed you needed rescuing,” he said to his niece. “But I see you’ve managed fine by yourself.”

“Of course, _Zio,_ ” Zell said, with a little smile. “I don’t recall you on any of the planning lists-?”

Cristoforo shook his head.

“Some people wanted me to come,” he told her. “Just in case. And I thought I might be a reassuring presence.”

There was a loud _beep_ from inside Zell’s jacket and turned her head to give her a father a displeased look.

“Ten minutes, you have somewhere to be. Get there.”

It took a moment after Feliciano started heading towards the room where the Pict delegation would be received for him to realize that his brother had fallen in beside him.

“You look terrible, Feliciano,” Cristoforo said once he’d been noticed.

“I- just remembering the last time the Pict came,” he said. “Ludwig was there, and then-”

He didn’t even have enough energy for a proper shrug. It probably came out looking just as bad as he felt.

“Ludwig,” Feliciano said hopelessly. It explained everything.

Well- _‘Ludwig’_ explained everything to Cristoforo, at least; Cristoforo who had known why he wouldn’t speak to Ludwig, Cristoforo who had been there through the first months of grief when he’d just stopped functioning and Heinrich had kept him eating and cleaned, Cristoforo who was still just as mad as he had been when he first learned about Amphitrite but did his best not to let his feelings about someone else to interfere with helping them.

“Ah,” was the only reply, unjudging understanding behind it.

“I-” Feliciano tried to continue after a few moments. “Do you think-”

He wanted to get this out before they reached the room.

Cristoforo stopped walking to face him, and took his hands.

“Breathe,” he told him quietly.

Feliciano did, and it was easier, then, to finish.

“What we know about Nations and souls and Lovino believes that the demon doesn’t have any claim on him he told me so but I don’t think I can believe it. A-and I’m not- I’m sure I don’t _deserve_ to go to Hell.”

He wasn’t sure he wanted an answer to this, but-

“Do I deserve to go to Hell, Cristoforo?”

“I don’t know if you _deserve_ that, Feliciano,” Cristoforo said. “That is not my place to judge. But-”

He let go of Feliciano’s hands to cradle his brother’s face.

“If I had my way, you would not go to Hell.”

That was a kind answer, and Feliciano didn’t regret hearing it- but he found that it wasn’t actually comforting.

“Thank you.”

* * *

_9 January 2053_  
 _Warsaw, Poland  
_ _12:06 PM CET_

The newspaper had moved to completely digital format years ago, and now had only one physical office.

They were not prepared for agents of the Centralne Biuro Śledcze arrive just as lunch break started and arrest the editor for the local arts section on charges of treason and accessory to terrorism.

Grażyna Król did not go quietly, and her former co-workers were left with the impression of ringing in their ears for long after she’d been forcibly dragged out, a symptom of the haze of shock that pervaded for the rest of the day.

* * *

Lintukoto was a true pleasure to ride through, even at the canter they were using to reach the mountain range; rather than the leisurely walk that the landscape really deserved. The sun was shining and the breeze was blowing and the grass was green and waving on the rolling hills and there were puffy clouds drifting across the brilliantly-blue sky and, all in all, it was a perfect spring day.

The two columns of Nations had strung out a bit to give each rider room to move. They were ascending a hill, one of the last before they reached the mountains and the cliff where the Tree of Golden Apples and the Well at the End of the World stood, when Mongolia pulled his horse around and galloped back down the column.

“The flag!” he called to Poland, and held a hand out as he shot by, catching the pole neatly as Feliks tossed it to him. Altanbaatar rose in his saddle, standing fully in his stirrups as his horse finished its turn and sheared diagonally up towards the crest of the hill, waving the flag furiously and voicing a call meant to travel over the steppe plains.

It was answered a moment later with a different call, and then Yao crested the hill behind them, accompanied by a man with a spear in one hand and his horse’s reins in the other. The standard-bearer rode beside them, Kūlún’s white tiger snarling and graceful on the red background. Two moments; and then they were followed by Kusiqhispi and a soldier in the bright colors and patterns of a Chicomoztoc noble, their horse draped with a chest piece bearing the Five Cities’ chakana, heading the combined compliments of the Kūlún and Chicomoztoc.

Altanbaatar waved the flag a few times more, then dropped back to where the Nations had formed up on the hill crest and dropped in just behind and beside Forouzandeh. Yao and Kusiqhispi and the military leaders they accompanied rode up towards them, the army spread out behind and below them.

“Iran,” Yao greeted Forouzandeh, establishing her preeminence in the Nation’s expedition to the other military leaders with a slight bow of his head. “General Nézhā of Kūnlún, on behalf of Xī Wángmŭ; and General Qullqisumaq of La Canela for Chicomoztoc and the King of the Five Cities.” 

The Generals managed a bow each in their saddles to Iran. General Nézhā murmured: “Your Highness,” to her.

“I bring the hundred and twenty best of those who would fight,” General Qullqisumaq informed Iran.

“You called for volunteers?”

“We have permanent officers,” Qullqisumaq told her. “But no standing army; and the King of the Five Cities cannot call out the militias for anything but a direct attack on Chicomoztoc without the order of the Jagdsprinz.”

“Kūnlún, as with Chicomoztoc, is not known for our cavalry,” General Nézhā said gravely. “But I bring the best we could find, many of them Yóuxiá from the Lower Reaches, and those of the Empress’s guard who can fight ahorse. The Empress hopes that this will be enough.”

Iran gestured to the Nations accompanying her.

“We, also, have done the best we can. I can find no fault with your forces, given the circumstances.”

Forming up took not very long- Nézhā, Iran, and Qullqisumaq rode out front of the combined formation, Kūlún, Nations, and Chicomoztoc in columns behind,  Nézhā’s standard bearer and Poland just behind the war leaders, flags held high and prominent.

They had to split the formation again to get everyone up the scree to the cliff, but they managed by going squad-by-squad. They had a third of the force ascended when the Buyanov force arrived, thunderous cloudy skies rolling in above them. Their flag- the dark stormcloud gray that came with just a hint of blue for the field and a gromoviti znaci done up in silver-gray and gold- whipped in the wind that accompanied the turbulent weather. There were few riders clustered around the flag in comparison to the Chicomoztoc and Kūnlún forces, perhaps forty or fifty; but everyone knew that the bulk of them _were_ the storm, wind and cloud and lightning spirits. The riders got in line behind the others trying to get up, except for the one with the flag, who came up the scree immediately and revealed herself to be Zvezda Kascheiyivna. She dipped the flag in silent greeting to the other generals and the Nations before falling in between Poland and Kūnlún’s standard bearer. A strong gust of cold wind that temporarily lowered the temperature enough for everyone to see their breath for a few moments heralded the arrival of General Boreas on the cliff plateau as he stepped out of thin air, forming from the wind and stray snowflakes and frost where he stepped to the ground.

The four groups started to move now that the plateau was filling up, Buyanov riders falling in behind the Nations in their column as the army began to proceed along the Huntsroad. They forded the stream with ease, and soon the fog closed in around them and the fog spirits’ foxfire lamps appeared, joined by the diffuse white glow of young unicorns around the edges of the group, the wild beasts restrained from attacking the cavalry force and draining their magic and stealing their lives away by the steel-wire bridles the fog spirits bound them with.

Romania jerked away, startled, when one of the _old_ unicorns, one who had survived long enough and hunted enough sentient beings to burn it’s coat black with magic and bank the fire-red eyes and carbuncle set into the base of its crystalline horn of its youth to a dark wine red, started trotting next to him. It was a good foot or so shorter than his mount, twelve hands instead of the fifteen or sixteen of riding horses, and it eyed him with a knowing, wicked humor born of the sentience it had gained through its numerous hunts.  

Sharp-faced oreads, the planes of their bodies flat and hard, rose from the stones to walk with them; and from between the trees, over the soil walls of the Huntsroad, dropped huldrene in the shape of wolves and forest cats and large wolverines and an odd bear or two, stalking amongst the horses with barely-concealed predatory intent, lips curling back over teeth, only to relax again after a moment.

The trees ended, not long after that, and out from the mist, right in front of the army, stepped a giant elk stag, the size of a moose with spreading antlers to match. It was a deep, warm reddish golden brown, the ruff of thicker fur around its neck more red than the rest, its eyes and hooves jet black and sharp, antlers the pale yellow-white of the Tree on the cliff. It looked at them for a moment, then stretched its neck out and bugled, the fog rolling away obediently at the high, strained hollow sound.

They were just at the edge of the clearing before the Nysa canyon, and the first thing everyone noticed, before even the mass of the Tylwyth Teg forces in their leather armor, brass spear tips and short swords glinting next to flint handaxes and arrowheads, enough soldiers to double their cavalry contingent and then some, was the dragon.

Wales waved to them from his seat atop the great red expanse of Pwffio’s scaled back, comfortably wedged into the space between the base of the dragon’s neck and the joints of his wings.

 _“Hell,”_ Georgia swore quietly. “ _That’s_ what he was doing.”

“Hello, Generals- why, Persia; with your own contingent. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Iran, now,” Forouzandeh said. “Good day to you as well, Amphitrite. I wasn’t expecting to see you, either.”

Amphitrite Kataiis smiled languidly from her seat atop a gray and black kelpie, flanked by twenty rusalka in sharkskin and steel and selkies in human form, their sealskin clothes simple and augmented by bits and pieces of the same armor the rusalkas wore; both groups astride kelpies of their own, bearing lances and spears with long, serrated blades. The kelpies were shifting with tension and one of them tossed its mane and bared its double rows of broad, sharp teeth.

 “I have business in Venice, however this battle turns out,” she said. For all her guards’ preparedness for fighting, she wore no armor, only the same layers of robes and the cascading headdress crown. But, of anyone who could have possibly come, she was the eldest, the most experienced, with the widest range of control or influence- and the least likely to need anything but her own innate power to protect herself or strike against another. “I see no reason why I should not contribute towards the end of the demon Mephistopheles and the return of our proper way of life by aiding my husband’s daughter, however wayward he might be. It is not _her_ fault, after all, that she has a traitor for a parent.”

Amphitrite turned towards the great elk.

“And you, Lord Hiruz, Knight-Protector of the Jägerskov- has your new King been chosen well?”

“We shall see,” the elk stag rumbled, causing a sudden ripple of movement amongst the army, which had been largely unprepared to hear him _speak._ “But I have faith. Arion knew Gwyn ap Llud well, and Ereshkigal would not have confirmed the choice if she thought there could be no success. There is hope for victory in my heart.”

“And of revenge?” a new voice demanded, and there was yet another surprise at the appearance of Queen Nicnevin at the front of the Tylwyth Teg riders, hair bound up and her face smeared with patterns in the blue paint-dye in evidence on her people’s fletching and hair ornaments. Her own armor was mostly hammered bronze with some leather in evidence, left its natural color or touched with yet more blue.

“Part and parcel of victory,” Hiruz assured-

And then, without prelude or warning, a deep roiling call rang out from the trees on the other side of the canyon, as, at the end of the Huntsroad, the Hunting Horn was sounded for the first time in centuries unrecorded.

Overhead, the wind spirits howled in response and the lighting spirits crashed with thunder; and on the ground the huldrene and the unicorns screamed an answer to the distant baying of hounds; and the Knight-Protector of the Jägerskov reared into the air and towered over everyone else for a long moment as he turned on his hind legs to charge for the Jagdshall, bellowing over it all in fierce, vengeful, glorious joy:

**_“The Hounds are running and the Hunt rides again!”_ **

* * *

_9 January 2053_  
 _German Provisional Government Offices, Stuttgart  
_ _2:00 PM CET_

Armas was used to press conferences now, and felt like he could be justifiably proud of the skill he’d built up doing them. He’d learned how to play to a crowd of reporters; how to give them leading questions and avoid giving bad answers.

He was _good_ at giving press conferences.

He was also good at surprises, and this particular one was very good.

Fact One: it was the day of the Pict arriving on Earth. People were _expecting_ a press conference.

Fact Two: if a press conference was announced by a government, everyone would naturally assume it to be about the Pict.

Fact Three: the press would have a lot of questions about the Pict, and most people would be trying to work with limited information or giving the press pre-written lines that were absolutely lies; though they didn’t know them to be lies.

Fact Four: he didn’t want himself or his government to look bad, and it would useful if they could, on this day, disassociate themselves from the Pict a little, just in case things went wrong.

Fact Five: he had the perfect selection of information bombs to drop to push the Pict down quite a few spots in the German-speaking news media, and hopefully in combination they would obscure or at least steal focus from the most damaging portion he’d have to reveal today.

So Armas went into the press conference- they’d cordoned off part of the street to fit everyone- with a smile and a plan.

He called on the reporters he knew would have easy questions, the big media representatives who wanted the basics rather than the details for their viewers, first, to show willing.

The sixth question he got was: “What will be done if the situation with the Pict turns into a disaster?”

This was his opening.

“We are proceeding with optimism tempered with caution, and aren’t expecting anything to go wrong,” he told the reporter. “But if it _does,_ we have every intention of treating the situation with as much care and effort to solving the problem as we did the Fire of Berlin.”

Time to drop the bomb.

“If you want more concrete proof of our success in that matter, for reassurance, I have here with me the details of the actions taken today in an international effort, led by our own General Beilschmidt in cooperation with the United Nations, against the persons responsible for the planning and coordination of the attack.”

Armas hadn’t been sure whether to expect silence or immediate clamoring, or which he’d be more satisfied with. He still wasn’t certain about the second part, but the commotion of reporters trying to shout new questions over each other was deeply satisfying.

He raised his hands in a wordless request for silence and gave it a moment before he pointed at someone.

“Who carried the most weight in the planning?”

“The ringleader of the group the plan came from was one Hanna Schumacher, Dutch, living in Rotterdam, freelance computer programmer,” Armas began. “She was arrested at about 10 o’clock this morning. However, during the course of our investigations, we discovered that the majority of the lead planners died themselves in the Fire, leaving their compatriots behind. I have the names of the ones arrested today, and the ones who died in the Fire-”

He spent a few minutes reading them all off; and then it was time for the second news bomb- the one everyone was worried about.

“-and one Xavier Kraus, German, living in Berlin, intern at the Reichstag,” he concluded the listing with. “ _He_ was the one who planted the first bomb, in the Reichstag basement, that ignited the gas line. I’ll take questions in a moment; because first I have to disclose some further information about Xavier Kraus.”

There wasn’t a murmur of speculation from the reporters, but it felt like there _should_ have been.

“Most of you have been with us since we held the first conference in Berlin, right after the Fire, though I certainly wouldn’t call that much a press conference. I didn’t mess it up _too_ badly back then, did I?” he asked, giving appropriate time for the quiet chuckles. “So I’m not going to spend any time rehashing the speech about the GfL’s and the Provisional Government’s dedication to transparency and honesty. I’m just going to prove it by telling you all right now that Xavier Kraus was one of the founding members of the GfL instead of not mentioning it and hoping that no one finds out later.”

There was the second bomb.

This time, he got shocked silence.

He’d liked the clamor better.

 “In 2041, the cohesion of the founding members of the GfL- Elke Bastian, Fadri Ruegg, Ute Kassmeyer, Brian Bruce, Xavier Kraus, and Manfried Bastian- was shaken when Manfried Bastian was murdered here in Stuttgart by a group of Neo-Nazis. The plan had been for the group to go _en masse_ to Berlin to begin their work; but Ute Kassmeyer and Brian Bruce fell away from political activism in the wake of the murder and trial, and Elke Bastian became determined to stay in Stuttgart. Xavier Kraus is the only one who moved on to Berlin, and over the course of the next few years, started to fall away from the party as Elke Bastian and Fadri Ruegg gained traction. His pamphlet writing tapered off, and by 2044, when he officially joined Hanna Schumacher’s group, he had effectively broken completely with the party; to the point that when the GfL finally _did_ come to Berlin, there was only the most cursory contact between Kraus and the party leadership.”

Hands started to go up, and Armas spent a moment considering if he wanted to take questions at this point or not. He decided it was more prudent not to.

Time for the last bomb.

“Copies of the briefing packet General Beilschmidt about the investigation for the United Nations and the notes on the actions today will be provided on your way out. In the light of the Fire of Berlin reaching some legal closure, and the safety of the German people ensured against any similar incidents, the German Provisional Government, the Swiss Confederacy, and the Republic of Austria are happy to announce that tomorrow they will meet for the first session of drafting the Treaty for the Establishment of the United Republic of the German Lands and the Constitution of the United Republic of the German Lands, both to be signed and put into effect on this coming 15th of September.”

As hoped, the announcement that _Vereinigtenrepublik Germanenlanden_ would be reality in nine months’ time, on the fifth anniversary of the Fire, drove the specter of Xavier Kraus right out of the spotlight.

* * *

_9 January 2053_  
 _The House, Forêt Fama south of Martigny  
_ _3:12 PM CET_

Switzerland had been, essentially, camping out on the edge of the House clearing since November. He hadn’t been planning on it, initially- when the Vatican had come to tell him about the demon and about the Jagdsprinz, he’d thought that perhaps he’d just come up and check every once in a while.

He held out for a week before the combined stress- knowing that the demon was still there, unseen, on his territory; and the creeping knowledge that it would soon _not_ be his territory, was enough to drive him from his office. He slept and ate out of the Martigny house now, but otherwise spent his days watching the House.

What exactly he expected to happen, what he expected to see, he didn’t know. But Switzerland had been sitting out in front of the House for almost a month and a half now, not exactly enjoying the duty but welcoming the distraction it gave from the impending United Republic of the German Lands, and it was… calming, in its own way. Being along in the forest with the snow. He’d managed a rapport with some birds, who now came about as close as city pigeons for crumbs.

There was no lead-up to it. No sudden feeling of doom, or nagging sensation that something was off.

One moment, Switzerland was fine. The next, it felt like someone was using a polearm to turn him inside out. The sensation didn’t translate well into bodily terms, physically- but he could feel it.

He’d known that the demon lived in the House. What he didn’t know, until he felt it reach across whatever boundary separated Earth and Honalee, was that Martigny was the counterpoint for the Jägerskov.

The demon was trying to escape Honalee, switching over to Earth, the same way it had avoided being exorcised the two times the Nations had come up against it. But on the other side, the Hunt wasn’t about to let it escape, not now that they had finally risen against it. The demon reached for Earth and the Hunt tried to drag it back to Honalee and Switzerland _felt_ as the demon sunk its power into the mountain and _pulled,_ trying to get away-

Forêt Fama and the Jägerskov rammed into each other, the clearing and surrounding trees of the Jagdshall shunting into the far end of the House clearing in a mind-bending distortion of space that had Switzerland on his side in the snow, trying to orient himself and his mind running white noise as it tried to process and accommodate the sudden intrusion on his territory, this alien presence, this space where Switzerland fuzzed into land he sensed as Other, not wrong and not mundane enough to be simply _‘different’_ \- it was eldritch, this new forest, this area of fused reality that he had a hard time finding the edges of.

He had enough presence of mind, or more likely self-preservation instinct, to roll off to the side when the demon burst out of the House, filling the air with its mass and presence and the sound of its wings moving against one another and its screeching screaming that was more in the mind than the ear, felt than heard.

Immediately behind the demon came the Hunt.

The Wild Hunt was also called the Wild Army in Germany. In England, they were Cain’s Hunt, Gabriel’s Hounds, and the Devil’s Dandy Dogs. The Hounds of Annwn was its name in Wales and the Household of Hellequin in France. The Norwegians called them the Ride of Asgard, the Swedes Odin’s Hunt. In Galicia, they were the Old Army; in Italy, the Dead Hunt. America had preserved the memory of it, as it had many things, and there the Jäger were the Ghost Riders.   

In the stories people told, they hunted the dead, the evil, the innocent, the supernatural, or whomever they came across. Sometimes people who saw it died; sometimes they joined the Hunt, briefly.

In all stories, the Hunt was loud, terrifying, and dangerous.

This was the simple detail that no one forgot, even as they embellished or made up facts in the stories to try to understand things better.

The noise the Hunt had been compared to a raging thunderstorm and an unearthly baying of hounds, but it was more than that. The first layer to the noise was the thunderstorm, louder than any natural storm and with a wind strong enough to whistle in the trees and tear leaves from the branches, if it had been spring or summer. Then the sounds of hounds and the horses, the unicorns and the forest animals, howling and growling and neighing and screaming. After that, the Jäger themselves, yelling wordlessly or in their own languages. Finally, the most chilling, the most foreboding, the pounding of the hooves and paws and feet as the Hunt raced to keep up to its prey, faster than anything else on the planet, all chaos and tumult.  

Overwhelmingly, the descriptions of how the Hunt looked, in the stories, favored black as the dominant color; and it did not disappoint. The host boiled past in a vast shadowy mass, streaks of color standing out against the darkness cast by the storm above them and the power of the Jagdsprinz.

But it wasn’t primarily the intimidating physical mass of such a force rushing head-on, their overwhelming momentum and sheer cacophony, that caused the terror of the Wild Hunt. It was the Jagdsprinz’s power.

To the Jäger, it granted blood-fever and a berserker’s rage to the point of rendering everything but catching the quarry irrelevant.

To the hunted, or the bystanders, the Jagdsprinz’s power brought nothing but terror. It was an almost physical force, in one part stomach-sinking dread, as you realized the scope of the power; and in the other part paralyzing terror, as it violently triggered the instinct to run, to hide, to beg and plead and do whatever you had to stay _alive._

It was weaponized fear, pure and simple, and effective.

The Hunt moved so swiftly that it took just moments for it to pass Switzerland by, but the impression they made raced ahead and lingered behind; and it took him a good few minutes to compose himself enough to call into Geneva and say that the chase was on.

* * *

Mephistopheles ran west across Europe, the Hunt in pursuit on and over land and air and water. They flashed past Geneva, then diagonally north through France and Wales and Ireland and across the Atlantic, hitting Canada, their course meandering south into the United States and then Mexico as they tried unsuccessfully to corner it somewhere, harrying it, dealing it damage in short surges that hurt the monster, but never slowed it down.

Once they’d crossed the Panama Canal, their course began a long, wide curve that cut through South America and back over the Atlantic, grounding again in South Africa and traveling up the coast, the ocean itself, called by Amphitrite, keeping the demon from trying to lose them over the water, and, on the landward side, Pwffio penning it in, keeping it from straying further inland.

The first time the Hunt cast the demon Mephistopheles down was over Mecca.

They struck it from the sky with a furious burst of lightning from the weather spirits that lit up the whole city, rattling buildings and cracking windows, throwing pedestrians to the ground. The demon rose, again, from the ground, but not as fast and without the same edge of confident power as before. It fled the city limits screaming, plowing through the storm and over the Hunt itself to avoid being goaded into going north, into heading for Jerusalem.

The Hunt wheeled around and kept up the pursuit, pounding out over the Indian Ocean.

Here, it tried the trick it had used once before to devastate the Hunt, calling up the hard foreboding pre-glow of light destructive enough to be the fire of a sun, the attribute of the Seraphim it hadn’t lost even when it fell.

A sea serpent- the largest, the oldest still alive- burst straight up into the air from the depths of the ocean, wrapping coil after coil of itself around the demon, fin-crests flaring and fangs tearing into flesh as it dragged the glowing monster down under the waves.  

The explosion of light under the water was strangely quiet, the harsh burst illuminating the battle for a moment before a cloud of steam came rushing up towards them. The mist spirits called it to themselves, wreathing the Hunt in a fine fog; and Mephistopheles burst out of the ocean, just ahead of the serpent lunging out after it, and the Hunt continued on, briefly touching on Australia, then island-hopping across the South Pacific and zig-zagging through the coastal regions of east Asia.

They managed to turn it on the Russian coast, back west, flanking it and herding it gradually south.

Mephistopheles caught on quickly.

“You cannot kill me!” it bellowed at them over their deafening noise, somewhere over the forgotten countries between the Black Sea and China. “Not in Jerusalem; not anywhere! Not so long as I have a Nation’s soul to draw on!”

The Jagdsprinz dropped back to where Hiruz, Iran, and Amphitrite ran and rode.

“Take it to Jerusalem,” she ordered. “I will take care of this, and meet you in the Vatican.”

The demon was cast down a second time in Jerusalem; and when it got back up again, after the earth and stones had turned against it and tried to swallow it up, it seemed less a monster, an unstoppable infernal force; and more just an outcast traitor.

That’s all demons were, really.

Traitors, exiled from their home, scheming to get the power they once had.

* * *

_9 January 2053_  
 _Palais des Nations, Geneva  
_ _3:24 PM CET_

When the Wild Hunt came over Geneva, Serafina DiAngeli merely looked up at the sky after they’d passed, and then brightly- facetiously, the Nations knew, but not the heads of state and assorted diplomats- if this was a common occurrence.

The Nations had done damage control, as such, keeping people from panicking and bringing the affair back inside. Ahead of schedule, the Nations and humans broke apart, as per custom. Usually, this was a minor annoyance- as much as it could be good social time, it never stopped feeling like they were being sidelined- but today, getting away from the humans was a necessity.

It had been ten minutes, maybe, Romano hadn’t been paying a lot of attention, since they’d left, and all anyone had done was shout at each other, most of it just a variation on: _“what the hell do we do!”_.

The door never opened, otherwise they might have had some warning.

The Jagdsprinz- he wanted to say Nia, he did, he did, but this wasn’t her. Nia didn’t carry plate armor on her upper body like a second skin; or _stride_ like that.

She had the Helm on, and shadows leaned towards her, bleeding into the darker air around her. There wasn’t even any shine on the blade of her drawn sword. The Helm didn’t leave her eyes visible, but it easy enough to know where she was looking. Romano felt her attention fix on him, momentarily, then slide away.

It made his shoulders tense. The Jagdsprinz had the air, the body language, of an Empire- unconscious confidence, and the unspoken assumption that she _would_ be relevant, that she _was_ the authority, wherever she was and whatever was going on around her. Nations would and had challenged colleagues who were Empires, and sometimes, it had even worked in their favor. But it was something you gauged based on what you knew of them, their personality, their past reactions. It wasn’t something you did lightly or wisely, and you made sure you had the resources to back your challenge up or enough to put on a show to bluff.

No one knew how the Jagdsprinz would react to anything. And no one, knowing she had just come from a Hunt, wanted to choose now to find out.

The Jagdsprinz locked eyes with Veneziano, and froze.

Lovino looked over at his brother. He was slightly wilted under her attention, drawing in on himself even more than he already had been. Feliciano had been very silent that day, and was now looking back at the Jagdsprinz with a quiet pleading expression, strangely soft, searching for something of his daughter in the King of Honalee before him.

“So that’s how the rest of Italy died,” the Jagdsprinz said, and Lovino and Feliciano flinched at the same moment.

That flinch meant Lovino missed most of the sword stroke that slit his brother’s throat. The Jagdsprinz was just far enough away for the first two or so inches to cut into Veneziano’s neck, cutting arteries and slicing right through his voicebox.

She didn’t seem disturbed at all by the blood, or the sounds of someone trying to breathe as the race to see which would kill first- asphyxiation or blood loss- began. She strode forwards and with two yanks of his tie had forced the fabric into the wound, pulling the knot tighter so it was firmly embedded.

Romano had never wanted to see something like this.

From another Nation, yes, he could accept, if not expect, something like this. The idea had been Feliciano’s, and he’d been the one to use it- it was simple enough. Slit a Nation’s throat, while they were alive or after they were already dead, it didn’t matter; then jam a cloth, preferably a scarf, lengthwise into the cut, leaving the ends free. Tie it snugly behind the neck, then stash the body.

The Nation wouldn’t revive until you came back to remove the cloth impeding the healing process. The knot kept the body from pushing the cloth out as it healed- and a Nation wouldn’t wake unless they were functional again.

It was the only way Lovino had ever heard of to truly murder a Nation. If you kept the body hidden long enough, if you _told_ everyone that they’d died and let them _believe_ that you were now their Nation, it became true. One day you’d go to check on the body you’d hidden, and it would just be gone.

This had served Venice-turned-North-Italy well in the years after the Risorgimento; and now it was being used on him.

The Jagdsprinz looked back at Romano.

“Do not remove that until I return,” she ordered, and someone no one exactly saw her leave, or more accurately disappear, because the door started to open and everyone immediately tried to come up with some way to either hide Feliciano’s body to convince whoever was coming in to _leave-_

Spain caught Zell as she walked in the door to ask her father if he could feel Nia, if he knew if she was all right, one hand over her mouth to muffle her scream and the other arm around her waist to keep her steady and prevent her from rushing towards Veneziano, gently pulling her down to the floor with him, holding her tight and quietly trying to convince her that everything would be all right.

* * *

_9 January 2053_  
 _St. Peter’s Square, Vatican City  
_ _3:32 PM CET_

Giovanna had been the first person to head for Cristoforo’s rooms in the Vatican, having heard about the appearance of the Wild Hunt first through family connections and then through the instant wild panicked speculation ripping through the media about what was going on. The consensus in the Archives as she left was that it had begun in Geneva, and was some sort of power display or attack on the part of the Pict.

The Pope was the second person to go seeking out his Nation, after clear pictures of the demon from Mecca started appearing on the Internet on multiple sites under variations of the tag _‘#BrokenMasquerade’_ , coined by someone somewhere down the line who had a solid grounding in urban fantasy and good eyes.

The difference in travel distance meant that Giovanna and Pope Honorius arrived at the same time, so Cristoforo opened his door to see his daughter talking around why she was actually there to stall for time while she found a way to politely and unobtrusively ask or convince his boss to come back later.

Cristoforo had them both come in, sat them down, and then qualified his earlier revelation to the Pope that magic was real and the man’s four-year-previous run-in with the Italian Nations after they’d managed to get out of the House a second time with the fact that there was in fact a demon currently on Earth and that a variety of forces of uncertain pagan origins and validity were hunting it down with the intention of destroying it because the overwhelmingly-Christian-majority Nation forces that had tried to get it rid of it twice beforehand had proved dismally unequal to the job.

This both went over better than and was much more embarrassing to admit to than the Vatican had anticipated.

The Pope pondered the information he’d been given for a few moments.

“So this Wild Hunt and the Kings of Honalee are _not_ trying to run down an angel, but destroy a demon?” he asked for clarification. “And they are not in any way allied with it?”

“Absolutely not, Your Holiness.”

“And once they’ve finished with the demon, will they then try to act against us?”

“No, Your Holiness. The Kings follow the Jagdsprinz, and the Jagdsprinz is firmly Catholic.”

 _“Oh?”_ Pope Honorius asked the Vatican archly. “So this magical Germanic pagan King is _Catholic;_ and you know this for a fact? I am quite certain I have never seen such a person here; or had anyone give me a report of such.”

“She’s family,” Cristoforo reluctantly admitted. “Feliciano and Germany’s daughter.”

Honorius was momentarily taken aback.

“Not the _Director-_ ”

“No, her sister. Sonnehilde Lavinia.”

“And just _how_ did your _‘firmly Catholic’_ niece come to-”

The door opening cut him off, and the Inspector General of the Vatican Gendarmerie had a second of surprise flash across his face at finding the two people he needed to report to in the same place.

“Please excuse me,” he said. “Your Holiness, Your Eminence, there is a person on a horse in armor in the Square who appeared there suddenly without seeming to come from anywhere; and given the circumstances I believe it would be best-”  

 “Can you describe this person, Inspector Leitz?” the Pope asked.

“Large, dangerous, antlers like a deer, and all in black,” Leitz answered promptly. “And if- if you’ll forgive my saying so, Your Holiness, rather… _eldritch._ ”

His composure cracked a little.

“Your Holiness, is- is it-”

“I have been informed that we have nothing to fear,” Honorius reassured him.

“That is _not_ what I said,” Cristoforo protested.

“Nonetheless, this _is_ your Germanic pagan Catholic King?”

“She is not _my_ -”

“I shall be going down to the Square immediately,” Pope Honorius informed his Inspector as he proceeded quickly out of the room. “Defer to His Eminence for orders on how to handle this situation.”

“Your Holiness-!” Cristoforo called after him in alarm.

“ _Patre_ , go,” Giovanna urged. “I’ll tell him.”

She turned her attention to the Inspector.

“So, Elias-”

Cristoforo dashed out of the room after the Pope, leaving his daughter to explain to Inspector Leitz that while the armored figure he had been worried was a demon was no such thing, a demon _would_ be along, probably quite soon, and it would be a good idea to clear everyone out of the area.

He caught up to the Pope at the end of the hallway.

“Your Holiness-”

“You will not stop me, _Vaticanus_ ,” Honorius ordered; so Cristoforo was forced to resort to pleading instead.

 _“Luca,”_ he begged quietly.

The Pope stopped to face him.

“Christophorus,” he said. “I am the Pope. I am God’s representative on Earth. I will not stay hidden while a demon comes to threaten the people of Rome. If it kills me, then I am dead. But I _will_ be visible to all who look to the Church for guidance.”

Cristoforo couldn’t think of an argument against that would keep the Pope from going, and so resigned himself to accompanying the man and getting between him and the demon, if necessary.

Inspector Leitz passed them not long after, proceeding as quickly as possible without actually running towards the Square to check on how things were proceeding.

By the time the Pope and the Nation got there, the tourists had been firmly ushered out of the space and into buildings or off the premises altogether, depending on where they had been standing at the time. Many of them had already pulled back, crossing themselves at the sudden appearance of the Jagdsprinz or taking a picture to send to friends and ask for help figuring out what was going on.

The demon and the Hunt came straight down Via della Conciliazione. The chase and the Hunt had taken enough out of the demon now that once it was penned into the space between the buildings on either side of the road, and the Hounds keeping it from dashing off to the sides and escaping between or through buildings, it couldn’t get the speed or height to escape being driven straight over boundary line and into Saint Peter’s Square.

 Once it passed into the Square, the Jagdsprinz charged it, the rest of the Hunt crowding the road and the Square behind the demon and the storm still roiling overhead, keeping it penned in. There was a strange combination of heat, from so many people packed into one place and the lightning spirits still letting off little discharges up in the clouds, and cold, frost rime spreading from Boreas and the mist spirits growing heavy in the January air.

Mephistopheles had slowed almost to a stop, not quite yet touching the ground, limbs drooping and wings starting to tremble from exhaustion. It swiped at the Jagdsprinz as she came at it, but missed, and the Jagdsprinz’s sword cut up through its side and severed the muscles supporting one of its wings.

The sudden weight caused the demon to unbalance, and then, it fell in a heap of wings, cast down a third time.

It lay there a moment, unmoving, and then tried to push itself back up- but the Jagdsprinz had wheeled back around, and with a triumphant roar from the Hunt, backed by a deafening screech from the dragon hovering over the Apostolic Palace, they fell upon the demon.

There wasn’t much to see, from the outside. It was just a writhing mass of horses and animals and spirits and people, making a tremendous horrible noise as they tore Mephistopheles apart. Blood was seeping out of the edges of the massacre, inching across the stones.

The whole affair was over within a few minutes. Slowly, the Hunt pulled back, revealing the dismembered demon. From where Cristoforo and the Pope stood, the orders the Jagdsprinz gave weren’t audible, the large gestures providing only a vague clue as to what she was saying, but people started riding forwards in small groups, dismounting, and started slinging the hacked-up pieces of Mephistopheles between their saddles with ropes. The dragon touched down in the Square, briefly- hind legs carefully supporting him on the top of the perimeter colonnades, tail draped over the buildings behind it, wings spread for balance- to get his orders. Cristoforo could see Wales, distinctly windswept, securely seated between the dragon’s wing joints. Everyone else in the Square was eyeing the dragon nervously, and Cristoforo told himself that he would have to remember to do something nice for the Vatican Gendarmerie, whose nerves were very clearly frayed by this sudden violent intrusion.

After some minutes of maneuvering, the dragon carefully picked up the demon’s wings in its claws and soared away, north, back towards Martigny. The Hunt finished tying up the demon pieces just after and started to fall back into position on the edges of the Square; the localized storm overhead breaking suddenly into a cloudburst to wash away the blood coating the stones.

The Jagdsprinz rode up to where the Vatican was standing with the Pope and reached into her saddlebag, pulling out a large folded piece of parchment.

“This is all that is left of Heinrich Adler, and Johannes, and Nikolaus, and Ludwig Beilschmidt,” she told him. “Keep it safe, Christophorus Petrius.”

“I would do nothing less,” he promised her, and she turned away to lead the Hunt back home.

* * *

_9 January 2053_  
 _Palais des Nations, Geneva  
_ _3:39 PM CET_

Now that people were expecting the Jagdsprinz to turn up again, they saw her arrive the second time- or rather, they saw her briefly, and then the rest of the returning Nations took up the majority of the attention.

In the general noise of relief, Zell could make out that the demon was finally dead. She’d be happy about that later, when she wasn’t kneeling on the ground staring at her father’s corpse any longer.

Lovino had been holding him ever since the Jagdsprinz had just let his body fall to the ground, keeping his brother’s head in his lap and keeping up a stream of words that Zell knew where supposed to keep her calm and reassure her, but she hadn’t been listening to them.

She’d been told that it was _Nia_ who had done this, who had murdered their father and left him in such a way that he wouldn’t wake, but she didn’t want to believe that. Nia wasn’t a murderer. Nia had apparently killed a demon, yes, but that was a _demon,_ not a person- not _family_ -

But here was the Jagdsprinz, here was _Nia,_ reaching down and pulling the tie away, gloves going bloody, but she wasn’t moving her hand from his throat.

Zell looked up at her younger sister, her face unhidden by the Helm, and asked-

_“Why?”_

“He still thought the demon owned him, so it could draw on his soul for power,” was the answer- and that was all wrong. This _felt_ all wrong; it felt like the same disorientation Nia had bitterly described when telling her about the psychological stutter that accompanied the stranger speaking from behind Germany’s face.

This looked like Nia. But it was the Jagdsprinz, wearing her face.

“So you _killed_ him-”

“If he was dead, his soul would go to Ereshkigal in Irkalla, where the demon could not reach.”

“You couldn’t _know-_ ”

“I _do,_ ” the Jagdsprinz cut her off. “There are Nations for one reason and one reason only- my _existence._ Before Gwyn ap Llud asked Ereshkigal to change the universe for him, there were none. Only when the Jagdsprinz’s Pact came into force, when the Kings of Honalee became more than rulers but wielders of great power in their own right, could humanity have Nations. Nations are the link to the Jagdsprinz’s Pact, to _my_ justice. They are humanity’s Kings. They are part of the design _I_ guide. Without them, humanity could have no pacts, no treaties, no binding promises, no interaction with Honalee or magic. When they are no longer needed or when they are blocked from this world, they go to the care of Ereshkigal, who formed them. They are Ereshkigal’s in death, and in life _I_ am their defender, _I_ am their judge, _I_ am their executioner.”

The room had gone quiet.  

She looked down at Veneziano, still dead under her hand, and snarled: **_“Wake up!”_**

He shouldn’t have- it had only been two minutes or so, he was nowhere near healing- but jerked back to life as he inhaled sharply, and stared up at the Jagdsprinz with wide eyes.

“The sins of your people are the sins of your people, _Venezia_ ,” she told him, voice tight. “And you feel them so you can better guide and care for them. But _your_ sins are your own, Feliciano Costa, and I know them _all_. I know the intricacies of your lies, the willfulness of your abuses, and the names of your violences. I call you _murderer,_ and _thief,_ and _liar,_ and _oathbreaker,_ and _betrayer-_ and tell you now that you are forgiven _none_ of it; not a single instance. You are alive now because it is more damage to the people in your care to remove you than to let them continue on with you; and more trouble to the Kings of Honalee from the governments of Earth than a single death is worth.”

The Jagdsprinz removed her hand from his neck, and the skin and flesh underneath was fully healed, just bloody. Feliciano shoved himself upright as the Jagdsprinz stood.

“Nia-”

“I have two siblings, Feliciano Costa; but you have only two children.”

“Nia-”

Zell found her words, finally, as she got to her feet and grabbed the Jagdsprinz’s arm.

She- toned down, at that touch; shoulders dropping slightly and expression softening. She looked like Nia again, mostly, Nia in the Jagdsprinz’s armor and with new edges and a new awareness.

“Told you I wasn’t trying to get myself killed,” she told her sister quietly as she pulled Zell into a brief hug. “I’ll talk to you more later, okay? I’ve got people waiting on me in Martigny.”

“Nia-!” Zell started to say again, but as soon as her sister stepped away she was gone again, vanished into thin air just as easily as any Nation. She stood there blankly for a few long moments, staring at the empty air, while her father cried behind her in his brother’s arms, now knowing the full extent of _exactly_ what Amphitrite had meant when she had told him that he would lose his younger daughter.

* * *

_9 January 2053_  
 _The Jägerskov/Forêt Fama south of Martigny  
_ _4:15 PM CET_

The Hunt had spread out on the mountain below the new, vastly enlarged clearing by the time she returned to Martigny. People were filtering away, and the demon parts had disappeared off somewhere, but there were still some people around. The generals from Kūnlún and Chicomoztoc had already left, to give the news to their monarchs and spread it to the other kingdoms that hadn’t had time or notice to become involved; and Queen Nicnevin had gone but some of her people remained. The Thálassian delegation was gone but for one rusalka, who was now accompanied by someone she hadn’t seen before.

She felt, not really like she was moving through a fog, but like there was a distance between her and everything else that couldn’t be breached. She was above it all, too powerful for anyone or anything to touch, even though she’d let the power sink into the background again, after she’d returned from Geneva.

“Does it always feel like this?” she asked Lord Hiruz. They were seated on the ground in the snow in front of the House, nearer to the structure than anyone else, where they could look down at everyone who was still present. They had been sitting there together in silence for a while, just watching.

“Like what, Jagdsprinz?” he asked.

She tilted her head back so it bent over his neck and saw the clouds above her, briefly, before she closed her eyes. Her breath was misting in the air, but she felt like it should be magic, instead, pure raw power, she was venting, not waste carbon dioxide.

“Like I could pull down the mountains and tear apart the sky and drain the seas.”

“No,” he told her. “Only when you’ve called on your power, when you’ve Hunted. When you catch your quarry, their power is added to your own. It will settle, eventually, though the feeling of power will never go away and the power itself will always be easy to call up anew, even in small amounts.”

 She thought about this for a couple minutes.

“So I have a demon’s power in me,” she told him. “I need to go get exorcized-”

“No, no,” Hiruz reassured her, the light coming through Nia’s still-eyelids changing as the movement of his head shifted the shadows of his antlers around. “It is taken from the demon, now. It poses no harm to your or any other of the Hunt. You have nothing to fear.”

She was quiet again for a minute or so, and then opened her eyes and asked: “How do I do this?”

“This?”

She made a large sweeping gesture indicating everything around them.

“I don’t know how to be Jagdsprinz,” she told him. “I killed a demon and I suppose that’s a good start, but I don’t know where to go from here.”

“Wherever you wish,” Hiruz said. “You are not Gwyn ap Llud, and you do not have to rule as he did. As King of the Jägerskov, no one may tell you what to do on your own lands. As Jagdsprinz, no one may tell you what to do but Ereshkigal; and she never gave the Erlkönig an order or a reprimand, even after he killed the Sorcerer-Queen of Kêr-Is and sunk the city. A dead King of Honalee and the kingdom entirely destroyed. The Jagdsprinz is not called the Red Knight for nothing- though in your case, I suspect that the red will be for Mephistopheles’ blood, and Ahes’ will be forgotten.”

“So I’m King of the Jägerskov _and_ the Red Knight, _besides_ being Jagdsprinz?” Nia asked, disgruntled. “The longer this goes on, the more I find I’ve been underinformed.”

“You are First Among Kings and Protector and Enforcer as well,” Hiruz continued, sounding unconcerned.

“And that means _what?_ ”

“That as Jagdsprinz, you are in a position above the other Kings due to the authority you wield; and that the essentials of your duty are to enforce treaties, contracts, and oaths and protect those who have had those broken against them.”

“Well, that’s a little bit of a better place to start, I guess,” Nia muttered to herself. “So what’s _your_ job? You’re _mine,_ I can tell that much-”

“Jagdsprinz,” she was interrupted by an unfamiliar voice. “There’s someone to see you.”

Nia opened her eyes and looked at the person who’d interrupted her. It was the rusalka that hadn’t gone with Amphitrite. Her companion and Switzerland were standing just behind her.

“Oh- _Herr Schweiz._ ”

“Jagdsprinz,” he said curtly. “Your forest is sitting on top of my forest.”

“I don’t know if I can do anything about that,” Nia told him. “And I think it’s more like your forest got smashed into my forest.” 

“I can walk around your part and end up on the other side of the House,” Switzerland said. “But if I’m not careful about it, I end up walking into _your_ part, and then I’m in Honalee. You can’t just leave it _open_ like this!”

“Well, the demon _opened_ it; and unless someone tells me differently, I don’t think I can _close_ it,” Nia said. “And even I could, I don’t know if I would. I’d rather not spend a few weeks in my country and come back to find my siblings dead.”

Switzerland kept scowling for a moment before visibly acknowledging her point.

“And it’s not like we could just explain you away,” he conceded. “It’s probably better that you stay. But people can’t just go _wandering_ into Honalee.”

“I know,” Nia said. “I’ll- I don’t know yet.”

“I would suggest calling a Congress,” Hiruz told her. “If there is to be a permanent link and diplomatic relations between Honalee and humans, then it would be wise to get the opinions of the other Kings.”

“ _I’m_ going to go talk to the mayor,” Switzerland said. “And call Austria and Prussia, and then I’m coming back. If you’re not going anywhere, then we need to sort this out.”

He left; but the rusalka and her companion stayed.

“Who are you?” Nia decided to ask.

“I am Dariya, Jagdsprinz,” the rusalka said. “And I am here to join your Hunt.”

“I shall take care of this, if I may stand?” Hiruz asked, and Nia got up so he could rise and do his job. “Come, Dariya.”

Dariya’s companion knelt into a deep curtesy and held it as they walked away, head bowed.

“I am Saphine Charis, Jagdsprinz, Lady-of-Honor to Queen Amphitrite Kataiis, and I have a message for you from my Queen- but first, I must give you my profound thanks. Both of my children were Knights of the Hunt, and died when the demon came.”

“You’re welcome; and I’m sorry,” Nia said, feeling that it was a bit inadequate. “I- didn’t see you around earlier-”

“You did, Jagdsprinz,” Saphine said, lifting her head and rising again. “I looked different, then. My father was the First Sea Serpent.”

 _“Oh,”_ Nia said. “In that case, thank you for your help.”

Saphine gave her a little nod of acknowledgment.

“My Queen wanted to inform you that she expected to be returning here about this time.”

“Why?”

“To conduct an item of business.”

“ _What_ item-”

Nia cut herself off as Amphitrite appeared some ways behind Saphine. Her expression went cold and tense, and the sea serpent gracefully extracted herself from the situation.

“I don’t want to _see_ him, Amphitrite Kataiis,” she bit out as the Queen approached with her husband.

“I understand, Jagdsprinz Teufelmördor, but his presence is required,” Amphitrite said, tugging Italy Veneziano along behind her. He looked weary and sad, the emotions deepening as he met the other King’s eyes. She kept it up until he was pulled up alongside her, then stopped, a couple feet in front of Nia.

“ _‘Teufelmördor’_?” Nia asked.

“The last Jagdsprinz was Erlkönig because of his position, that led him to it,” Amphitrite reminded her. “You have killed a demon to take it up yourself. It is only fitting. And now, Jagdsprinz Teufelmördor, I call upon you to Witness, as is your duty and a responsibility of your office.”

The words struck a chord deep in the power Nia now had. This was a ritual, part of what the Jagdsprinz did- there was no more escaping _this_ than had been going after Mephistopheles.

“I absolve Feliciano Costa, _Venezia_ , of his debt to me,” Amphitrite recited; and now that she’d started Nia _knew_ how the rest of the ritual went, and she didn’t like it. Not half an hour ago she had told him he would never be forgiven; and _now-_

“He is released from obligation of restitution for his adultery. I give this absolution freely, of my own judgment, as is my right; and declare this with you as my witness, Jadgsprinz, as is my duty.”

This was one of things that had come about when Gwyn ap Llud had asked Ereshkigal to change how oaths worked- a second option out, for when parties to a contract agreed that the price for breaking it was too much to pay; or for those cases where someone had been well and truly forgiven by the person they’d wronged, so no payment would have to given.

“Then you, Feliciano Costa, _Venezia,_ ” Nia was forced to reply. “Are forgiven; by the grace and compassion of the one you have wronged, and in the sight of the Hunt and it’s Lord.”

That was the close to the ritual- now she could speak freely, to let her voice take on the hard, angry tone she _wanted_ to use.

“But _only,_ ” she spat at him. “That debt owed Amphitrite. You have other debts- some that _cannot_ and _will not_ be forgiven.”

“Which ones?” he asked, very quietly.

“The debt you owe Ludwig Beilschmidt _cannot_ be forgiven,” she told him. “And the one you owe me _will not_. Maybe the ones you owe your daughter, or your son, or your brother Cristoforo, for making him party to your adultery in bad faith. But these two? _Never._ ”

Nia turned her attention to Amphitrite.

“ _Why?_ ” she demanded. “Why forgive him?”

“The promise he broke was to stay with me,” Amphitrite told her, all calm and composure. “Not to love me. I know he never stopped that. So long as he returns to me, and _remains_ , we have no further cause for quarrel. What I asked in payment has been given; and so anything outstanding is _for_ given. Now, we can stand together before the other Kings, and before other Nations.”

“I don’t like it,” Nia said.

“You do not have to, Jagdsprinz,” Amphitrite said. “Our business is concluded; and we will let you get about yours.”

Nia set her jaw and looked again at Feliciano.

“I don’t want to see you unless it’s for business,” she told him curtly. “And even then, I’d rather not.”

He didn’t say anything, and merely looked down at his feet.

“Another question before you go,” she said to Amphitrite. “Hiruz suggested I call a Congress.”

“It was a good suggestion,” Amphitrite replied. “I, for one, am interested to see what you will do with what has been given to you, Jagdsprinz. I look forward to getting to know you better and finding out.”

“We’ll see,” Nia said, and waited for them to leave.

After they’d gone, she looked around the mountain, almost deserted now, and the mess of space that had locked a little section of her kingdom in Honalee to Switzerland.

“Well,” she muttered to herself. “Let’s see what can be made from this.”

* * *

The Nations broke the news about magic and Honalee and the demon and the Hunt to their governments, and it went over about as well a national security leak. Then the governments had to break the news to their citizens, and _that_ went over even worse. There was a lot of screaming about government conspiracy theories and the Illuminati and the Freemasons and every other group anyone had ever suggested had even a tenuous to connection to anything remotely magical or mystical; in addition to the ongoing screaming about government conspiracy theories and aliens. Fantasy writers and fans exploded in disappointment and uncontrollable excitement and interest, much like their compatriots in science fiction.

Various varieties of neopagan, Wicca, and general magical practitioners started yelling at each other in person and on the Internet about the significance of it all and if and how they should adjust to this new information and if they should call it proof that they were right. Some Christians and Jews and Muslims took the entire incident as proof that _they_ were right, since, after all, there _had_ been a demon; but different elements within the same groups pointed out that it was some sort of pagan thing that had destroyed it; and some of them were also with the people who were saying there was just as proof for the _other_ religions _also_ being true; and there quickly developed a side argument about Western Imperialism as related to the extermination and suppression of religions that weren’t Christianity; and then the atheists arrived; and there was absolutely no salvaging the situation and most of the people involved added names to their lists of _‘people never to be spoken to again’_ and _‘mortal enemies’_.

The Pope got involved, and it didn’t help, except that he spoke in favor of the Wild Hunt and the Jagdsprinz, so people stopped worrying so much about _them,_ at least.

Cassiel Navin got himself in front of a television camera and told the world that _of course_ magic was real, how did everyone think he’d managed to do what he did with technology?

This _also_ didn’t help, at least initially, but once the majority of people stopped panicking they listened to what Navin Technologies, courtesy of Ásdís and Øystein, had to say about magic; and realized that in a lot of places they’d been living alongside it without any ill effects or catastrophes. A few people quicker on the uptake also pointed out that Navin Technologies had almost certainly used magic for their space flight, and so magic would be the only hope of getting humanity back to the stars in any significant or useful capacity.

This was one of the only good points of the entire affair.

The other one was that the details of the trials of Hanna Schumacher and the rest of her associates were completely drowned out by the global media noise, so private lives got to stay mostly private. The only people who paid any continuous attention were the citizens of no-longer-Germany.

Behind the closed doors of politics, the meetings between the German Provisional Government, the Republic of Austria, and the Swiss Confederation were a bit tumultuous in the first two weeks, but settled down once the Nations quite firmly informed everyone that this _would_ happen on schedule and that the representatives _would_ all cooperate with each other to work around the new problem of the Jagdsprinz’s lands in Switzerland.

 These talks, however, proceeded somewhat slower than previously expected due to the flurry of activity the United Nations had become, receiving diplomats from the Kings of Honalee- some of whom, like Lord Hiruz, caused quite a stir- and the Pict, and holding a series of emergency meetings to decide what to do about all these new political players- and then, eventually, after some things had been sorted out, to do their part of drafting a treaty between humans and Honalee and the Pict.

Somewhere, at some point, the Jagdsprinz called a Congress of the Kings of Honalee, which was the most effective political gathering of any sort so far that month. There were some worries about the change in time flow that everyone was experiencing, now that the Jägerskov and Forêt Fama were sharing space, but the slaving of Earth’s and Honalee’s time flow wasn’t exactly an adverse effect, and the other Kings stayed silent about their impressions of and thoughts about the new Jagdsprinz, so everything went smoothly. Delegates to the United Nations were assigned to help draft the treaty, and the Jagdsprinz found most of her time eaten up by coordinating between the groups and making sure everything that could be reasonably accounted for was accounted for.

In the end, it wasn’t the most complicated or finely-crafted of treaties, and it was a rush product meant to provide a stop-gap measure, but everyone agreed on the wording and contents enough at the time for it to go through-

And, in all honesty and later historical hindsight, the drafting-under-pressure between the three groups- humanity, Honalee, and the Pict- probably gave each a better measure of and introduction to each other than anything else could have.

* * *

**  
THE TRIPARTITE TREATY FOR THE BASIC AND INITIAL RELATIONS OF HUMANITY, HONALEE, AND THE PICT DOMINIONS**

THE MEMBER STATES OF THE UNITED NATIONS, THE REPUBLIC OF CHINA, and THE VATICAN CITY STATE, these States being described within the Treaty as HUMANITY, of the first part;

And IRKALLA, ORCUS, THE SILENT HILLS, AVALON, DIE BERGE ÖSTER OCH VÄSTER, LINTUKOTO, THE FIVE CITIES OF CHICOMOZTOC, PÓLI THÁLASSAS, BUYAN, MORNINGTOWN, KŪNLÚN, THE STEPPES OF MÖNGKEDAI KHAN, HAWAIKI, LANKA KUBERA, and THE WILD HUNT, these Entities being described within the Treaty as HONALEE, of the second part;

And THE PICT DOMINIONS, of the third part;

 **WHERAS** upon the event of open and public acknowledgement of each other’s existence, do find it necessary to open diplomatic relations and set agreements as to treatment of others under their respective laws, matters of trade, rights of travel and settlement, and issues of the military, war, and peace;

Are for this purpose the CONTRACTING PARTIES represented as follows:

HUMANITY, having no sole leader, does allow the Vatican and The Republic of China their own Nations and representative parties, and the United Nations to assign a member Nation selected by the other member Nations to serve as its counterpart to the Nations of the Vatican and The Republic of China, and does designate as their Representatives:

Her Excellency Terezija Korošec of Slovenia, the one-hundred and eighth President of the United Nations General Assembly,

The Esteemed Islamic Republic of Iran, Forouzandeh Qazai,

His Holiness Honorius V, Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Primate of Italy, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman Province, Sovereign of the Vatican City State, Servant of the servants of God,

The Esteemed Vatican City State and the Holy See, Christophorus Petrius,

His Excellency Chiam Bao, President of the Republic of China, and

The Esteemed Republic of China, Ông Hua;

And HONALEE, in accordance with their laws and traditions governing the matter of treaties, contracts, and oaths, does designate as its sole Representative

The Jagdsprinz Teufelmördor, Sonnehilde Lavinia Beilschmidt, First Among Kings, Protector and Enforcer, King of the Jägerskov, the Red Knight;

And, for THE PICT DOMINIONS,

The Speaker for the Pict, designated “Serafina DiAngeli”;

WHO, having reached a full accord that this Treaty is fair and just, HAVE AGREED AS FOLLOWS:

That from the moment of signing all parts of this Treaty shall be in full effect; and

That from the moment of signing all Parties to this Treaty shall enter into full and official diplomatic relations.

 

**PART I  
DIPLOMACY**

Article 1. Humanity recognizes and honors the laws and traditions of Honalee in the matter of the rank equivalency of Nations.

Article 2. Honalee recognizes and honors the legitimate governments and authorities of Humanity, regardless of their standing as Nation or otherwise.

Article 3. The Pict Dominions recognize and honor the individual will, autonomy, and consent of the subjects of Humanity and Honalee.

Article 4. Humanity and the Pict Dominions recognize and honor the legal and moral authority of the Wild Hunt within the jurisdiction of the aforementioned Entity in accordance with the laws and traditions of Honalee.

Article 5. Every Entity subject to this Treaty has two years upon their entering said subjectivity within which to appoint ambassadors to and provide space for embassies from each other Party, collectively by and to their overall governing bodies where applicable, or individually, or both.

Article 6. The Wild Hunt, due to issues of reconstruction, is exempted from the two year limitation and must instead comply with Article 5 within ten years.

**PART II  
TREATMENT UNDER LAW**

Article 7. All subjects of Honalee and the Pict Dominions are to be afforded equal status to that of a human under the laws of Humanity.

Article 8. All subjects of Humanity and the Pict Dominions are to have any issues of law inside the jurisdiction of Honalee tried and decided by the Wild Hunt, or their trial by the appropriate authority of Honalee overseen by the same Entity.

Article 9. All subjects of Honalee and Humanity are to be afforded equal status to that of a Pict under the laws of the Pict Dominions; and have any issues of law inside the jurisdiction of the Pict Dominion overseen by the Wild Hunt or by an appropriately appointed representative of their country.  

Article 10. Extradition of subjects of Honalee to Humanity or the Pict Dominions will be coordinated between the government asking for extradition, the Sovereign of the subject in question, and the Wild Hunt.

Article 11. Extradition of subjects of Humanity to Honalee or the Pict Dominions will be coordinated between the government asking for extradition, the government and Nation of the subject in question, and, when appropriate, the Wild Hunt.

Article 12. Extradition of subjects of the Pict Dominions to Humanity or Honalee will be coordinated between the Pict Dominions, the government and/or Sovereign of the subject in question, and, when appropriate, the Wild Hunt.

Article 13. Members of the Wild Hunt, regardless of species, citizenship, or any other considerations, are in issues of law answerable to the judgment and discipline of the Jagdsprinz first and any other offended parties second.

**PART III  
RIGHTS OF SETTLEMENT, TRAVEL, AND CITIZENSHIP**

Article 14. The Pict Dominions cede the settlement rights to Humanity, equal between all Entities therein, of the following planets and their extra-atmospheric territory, which they herein swear are suitable for human habitation: Eustra, Eoswides, Notov, Theuazuno, Qecarro, Greylea, Traevsabr, Iobreron, Theiostea, Haero, Helike, Tegawa, Uproise, Friyhaecury, Oichtion, Atbrion, Suhiri, Udglinda, Briomaenides, Ogsheon, Ruzuno, Tatera, Esktorix, Sciater, Freiezuno, Aizuasleron, Fagantu, Idynpinda, Uvchade, Oijieshura, Thiuzuogantu, Genov, Slaulia, Crieurata, Uastranris, Shuonis, Ialiv, Asmeshan, Ionov, Uydoystrara, Iajiysnov, Blaizahiri, Jalex, Iohines, Axspichi, Kulea, Ayskypso, Driothea, Ushippe, Spuereytov, Brioclite, Vaturn, Oqxyama, Erdriea, Oqiosheia, Shariya, Toria, Iodromia, Driothea, Jelea, Thieostea, Lonia, Algarth, Trojana, Zeshan, and Iobreron.

Article 15. The Pict Dominions cede the settlement rights to Honalee, equal between all Entitites therein, of the following planets and their extra-atmospheric territory, which they herein swear are suitable for habitation: Griolara, Uxcilia, Oetrbyke, Aostarth, Ubrilles, Oskapus, Docury, Aphwhion, and Uaclleon.

Article 16. Subjects of Humanity and Honalee have the right to travel unimpeded throughout the Milky Way Galaxy, with the understanding that future provisions will be made for the exact drafting of borders for the Pict Dominion Space Area, which will be sovereign under the Pict Dominion and subject to whatever border laws the Pict Dominion deems necessary.

Article 17. Subjects of the Pict Dominion have the right to travel within the territories of Honalee and Humanity in accordance to the laws of said territories.

Article 18. Subjects of Humanity and Honalee have the right to travel within each other’s territories in accordance to the laws of said territories.

Article 19. Travel of Humanity to Honalee and Honalee to Humanity will be facilitated in perpetuity through the Wild Hunt’s possessions in the Forêt Fama.

Article 20. Travel of Humanity to Honalee and Honalee to Humanity will not be arbitrarily or unjustly obstructed by the governments of any Entity therein.

Article 21. Individual subjects of any Entities subject to this Treaty have the right to residency in the territories of any other of the Entities subject to this Treaty in accordance to the laws of said territories, which may not arbitrarily or unjustly exclude residency by the individual subjects of any of the other Entities subject to this Treaty.

Article 22. Individual subjects of any of the Entities subject to this Treaty have the right to obtain citizenship of any territory of any of the other Entities subject to this Treaty in accordance to the laws of said territories, which may not arbitrarily or unjustly exclude citizenship by the individual subjects of any of the other Entities subject to this Treaty.

Article 23. Membership in the Wild Hunt of any individual subjects of any of the Entities subject to this Treaty does not void said individual subjects’ residencies and citizenships held previously to membership in the Wild Hunt; and does not bar them from seeking additional residencies or citizenships in accordance to Articles 21 and 22.

**PART IV  
ISSUES OF TRADE**

Article 24. Honalee and the Pict Dominions agree not to withhold any information regarding magic or science from Humanity that they would not withhold from their own subjects.

Article 25. Humanity agrees not to withhold any information of value from Honalee and the Pict Dominions that they would not withhold from their own subjects.

Article 26. The trade of goods, services, and information between Honalee and the other Entities to this Treaty shall be overseen and regulated by the Wild Hunt, in accordance to the laws and traditions of Honalee.

Article 27. The trade of goods, services, and information between Humanity and the other Entities to this Treaty shall be overseen and regulated by the World Trade Organization and the United Nations Commission on International Trade Law, as well as the individual governments and authorities of the territory within which the trade occurs.

Article 28. The trade of goods, services, and information between the Pict Dominions and the other Entities to this Treaty shall be overseen and regulated by the Speaker for the Pict and any other individuals as deemed necessary by the Speaker.

Article 29. No Entity subject to this Treaty may bar the trade of goods, services, and information between itself and any other Entity subject to this Treaty in whole; but may extend bans on particular goods, services, and information; so long as said bans are in accordance to the procedure of said Entity’s trade regulating body; or with the explicit and special permission of said Entity’s trade regulating body.   

**PART V  
ISSUES OF WAR**

Article 30. Any Entity or Entities subject to this Treaty who declares war on any other Entity or Entities subject to this Treaty, either formally or by sufficiently hostile and violent action, automatically forfeits their rights and privileges under this Treaty, in its original or any altered forms.

Article 31. The declaration of war by any Entity or Entities subject to this Treaty on any other Entity or Entities subject to this Treaty, either formally or by sufficiently hostile and violent action, in response to a declaration of war on them by said other Entity or Entities, do not forfeit their rights and privileges under this Treaty, in its original or any altered forms, so long as said first Entity or Entities stay within the bounds of an appropriate response.

Article 32. Honalee and the Pict Dominions agree to follow and enforce all of the Geneva Conventions, the Hague Conventions, the Geneva Protocol, and the Convention relating to the Status of Refugees.

Article 33. Humanity and the Pict Dominions recognize and honor the authority of the Wild Hunt in punishing war criminals within any area within their jurisdiction in accordance to the laws and traditions of Honalee.

**PART VI  
                PROVISIONS**

Article 34. Any other Sovereigns in the realm of Honalee, as-undiscovered at the time of this Treaty, should they enter into the Jagdsprinz’s Pact and gain a place at the Congress, shall automatically be considered subject to this Treaty under the terms of Honalee.

Article 35. Any other Sovereigns in the realm of Honalee, as-undiscovered at the time of this Treaty, who wish to enter into this Treaty without entering the Jagdsprinz’s Pact and gaining a place at the Congress shall be added to this Treaty separately from the terms of Honalee.

Article 36. Any other non-Pict species that may be discovered to exist in extraterrestrial space who wish to enter into this Treaty may do so, either under the terms of the Pict Dominions or separately.

Article 37. Any future settlements and countries of Humanity, whether they be extraterrestrial or within the realm of Honalee, will automatically be subject to this Treaty under the terms of Humanity, unless they specify otherwise.

Article 37. Any future settlements of Honalee, whether they be within the realm of Earth or extraterrestrial in relation to Earth, will automatically be subject to this Treaty under the terms of Honalee, unless they specify otherwise.

Article 38. Any future settlements of the Pict Dominions, wherever they may be found, will automatically be subject to this Treaty under the terms of the Pict Dominions, unless they specify otherwise.

Article 40. The terms of this Treaty do not prevent the individual Entities who consented to this Treaty from conducting individual Treaties and agreements with each other, so long as they do not violate the terms of this Treaty.

Article 41. The terms of this Treaty are able to be altered by revisions, further provisions, and amendments as agreed on by all Entities subject to this Treaty at any time.

 

 **THE PRESENT TREATY** , in English, the Trade Creole of Honalee, and the language of the Pict, shall be ratified; all versions of the present Treaty being declared in complete and exact accordance with each other in meaning and interpretation by every Entity subject to this Treaty.

 **IN FAITH WHEREOF** the above-named Representatives have signed the present Treaty. Done at the Headquarters of the United Nations in New York City, the twenty-ninth day of January, two thousand fifty-three; in triplicate, the copies of which shall be held by the United Nations in the Palais des Nations in Geneva for Humanity, by the Jagdsprinz at the headquarters of the Wild Hunt for Honalee, and by the Speaker for the Pict in the Pict Flagship for the Pict Dominions; and of which authenticated copies shall be transmitted by the United Nations to every present and future individual government of Humanity and by the Jadgsprinz to every present and future Sovereign of the realm of Honalee subject to this Treaty.


	30. In Memoriam

**To our friends and family, gone away:**

**You are not forgotten**

**Be well and keep us close, though we may never meet again**

 

_Et absterget Deus omnem lacrimam ab oculis eorum et mors ultra non erit neque luctus neque clamor neque dolor erit ultra quae prima abierunt_

Revelations 21:4

_And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the old order of things has passed away_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finished I almost can't believe it.
> 
> I've started writing the sequel, at this point called _More Than Kin and Less Than Kind_ , which will consist of chapters focusing on a character or group of characters- some of them old, many of them new- to tell the story of aftermath of what happened to the world because of _2053: December_ and _2053: January_. Planned at 14 chapters- and then, in the story after that, we will conclude our three-part journey and everyone finally gets their happy endings.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this enough to stay on for the rest of the ride.


End file.
